


A Bond Force in War and a Bond Forged in Love

by Tindomerelhloni



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alpha Sherlock, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Drug Use, I hate myself, John is sort of a bad ass omega, Just to be safe, Just unwanted bond, M/M, Multi, Not actual rape, Omega John, Sherlock is a Size Queen, So I tagged it non-con, There will be pining, clearly, hidden genders, john takes no shit, omg another wip, they're idiots, what am i doing to myself
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-06-27 14:49:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 6
Words: 36,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19793131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tindomerelhloni/pseuds/Tindomerelhloni
Summary: John never let his secondary gender as an Omega stop him from doing what he wanted.He got his doctorate, he joined the army, and he even forced the army to deal with "What happens if an Omega gets a bond forced on them" when before they just... waved it off.However, John never thought he'd do that to protect himself.. until it happened.I suck at summaries.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Omg.. tindo does another WIP...
> 
> This literally was to clear up writers block, which I think every WIP is for at one point or another. I have too many wips... but my stress level wont let me deal with them, idk why. I have ONE chapter left to my Victorian fic, which was being written until my job rotated my role into something I despise.. now my days are so busy... 
> 
> I'm rambling, sorry, too much coffee... I plan on this being... 5 or 6 chapters long. I have chapters 1-3 written. I will post one chapter a weekish.
> 
> Find me on tumblr! https://tindomerelhloni-official.tumblr.com/
> 
> *EEDITTT**
> 
> I know why I post WIPS!!!!! I write on google docs, one fic per one doc... (should create folders!) I HATE HAVING OVER 30 pages needing to load in each time I open the doc!! I need a folder system, folder for fic, one doc per chapter!! Ahhh why did I never think of that!?!?!)

He'd heard of it happening before, but never in his darkest nightmares had John Watson imagined it would happen to him. He'd had to sign a waiver upon enlisting, one that had two options for such an instance. Option A) be left with whatever Alpha claimed him on the battlefield, or B), which he selected, to be removed and isolated. 

A handful of his mates would know his choice, in order to best aid him. He had little to fear from the few who didn't know, however. He was after all, on military-grade blockers. Not only did they prevent his heat, but they mimicked the scent a beta would have, making it 99.9% impossible for anyone to tell he was an Omega. Apparently, this one particular male Alpha was either that .01% or was just an asshole who liked to bite. John assumed the latter.

He'd been out with his troop, sweeping a recent bombing site for wounded when it happened. He was bent over a body, checking for a pulse when it suddenly veered up and grabbed him by the wrists. The movement was so sudden that John didn't have time to react. In a matter of seconds he was on his back and the person, a large dirty man with a gash on his head and a crazed look in his eyes, was looming over him snarling. Spittle foamed at the corners of his talents mouth, then sharp Alpha canines descended. The bite hurt. It hurt bad. All John could do was scream in pain as teeth tore into his neck, then again and again over his shoulder as the Alpha on top of him grew drunk of the pheromones of a newly, his newly, bonded Omega. Blockers or not, they didn't prevent a bond. 

John didn't remember his army mates pulling the man off him, or remember the long and dusty ride back to base. His secondary gender, triggered by the bond, was in full swing. His heat was coming on, and it was coming on fast. His body, though his mind grew disgusted at the thought, yearned for the Alpha to consummate the bond as biology required. 

Upon returning to base, he was unceremoniously tossed into a padded cell with a few bottles of water and a handful of energy bars. Left to ride out his heat alone. In the end, when it had all become too much, John had fucked himself with a water bottle, but even then it wasn't enough.

That was two weeks ago. John was now on his way back to England, honorably discharged. The cover story was that he'd been shot when in reality he was a liability. His  _ Alpha _ (the thought made John seethe with anger) could sense him. Part of the bonding process allowed Alpha and Omega to sense each other's presence. Not directly, not like the man could hone in on John to the next nearest coffee shop, but more so a general direction. Still enough for the enemy to know generally where his troop was located. 

Back in England, the man would only know he was far away and could feel the highs and lows of John's emotions. John's mother, who had also been an Omega, had taught John a trick passed down from generation to generation, from an age where bonding happened on an unwanted basis much more frequently, that allowed John to concentrate and put  _ his _ Alpha's presence into a box, shut the box and tuck it away in the back of his mind. He focused on applying that to his new bond during the duration of his flight home and breathed a sigh of relief when the angry ball of emotions was quelled. 

As the pilot announced their descent, John sighed and ran over the few facts he knew, the very few things he could grasp with any certainty. 

  * He was bonded. 
  * He was safe (as long as that Alpha didn't attempt to make a legal claim on him). 
  * He would not have his heat as long as he remained separated from the Alpha. 
  * He could pass for a Beta man, while his Omega senses still worked only the Alpha who had bonded him could smell him. 
  * He would be given military housing until he'd found his own place. 
  * He'd also be given a small pension for his troubles. 
  * His military file was locked tighter than Fort Knox. No one could see he'd been bitten, not shot, except for the Alpha who'd bitten him. 



And, as he stepped off the plane and onto British land, he found himself thankful for that waiver. Thankful that he'd fought for a second option. Before him, on account of how few Omegas dared join the forces, only option A had been available. He'd hired a lawyer and request they permit him the option to leave an unwanted bond, as after all this was the 21st century and he wasn't some omega to be bartered off. If it hadn't been for his compelling skills as a doctor and surgeon, John thought perhaps the military wouldn't have made such a change to their policy. 

From both how terrible the bite had been, and overexerting the injured extremity during his heat, his left arm was now bound up in a sling. He required surgery to repair some of the muscles and ligaments, would probably never have full movement again. But now, it left him struggling to one-handedly lug his army-issued rucksack throughout the crowded London airport. 

By the time he'd made it from terminal to taxi, he was exhausted and disgusted with himself. The driver made no move to help John stow his bag in the boot, and by the time John was seated inside the taxi, anger was his foremost emotion. He spat out the address of the bedsit his CO has arranged for him and closed his eyes, hoping it would ward off any questions his sling and desert camo fatigues might kindle. Either it worked, or his driver wasn’t talkative. The driver grunted softly when they’d reached their destination.

After retrieving his bag from the boot he turned around and looked at his new lodging. It was a run-down brick building that looked like at one point it had been a motel, now converted to semi-permanent lodging. He let out a sigh and walked towards the entrance, hoping he had a ground floor room.

In the first week back in London, John did not remain idle. He bought himself a laptop with his savings and put the free wifi at the bedsit to use. By the end of the first week, he’d sent his CV to every clinic and any even remotely medical position. Someone somewhere must be in need of a highly trained, if slightly wounded, doctor. A week went by, then two, two turned into a month. By the middle of the second month back in England John was beginning to lose hope of employment. Even the local shop had turned him down, the manager looking at his limp left arm and shaking his head, saying they weren’t hiring. 

One particular Thursday in May found England in full bloom. Spring had finally sprung, and the rain for once seemed to be away bothering someone else, probably Finland. Despite the sun, the birds chirping, flowers presumably blossoming, depression and denial over his plight were also in full swing. At the core, even if he were the only one who knew, he was an Omega, a bonded Omega, alone on his own. If people knew, he’d be shipped off back to Afghanistan, sent back to  _ his _ Alpha quite possibly before his military benefactor could intervene. He was, granted by choice, alone. He’d only reached out to his sister, an alcoholic who couldn’t keep a job let alone a flat, to let her know he was back in town. They’d met for tea, right after he got back, she cooed over his “gunshot” and promised to keep in touch. She hadn’t, and he hadn’t bothered either. 

He was sat at his desk, staring at his CV, wondering if there were any possible way to improve it, to help his cause when he let out a frustrated sigh. He’d been job searching for hours, to no avail and he felt as if he’d finally reached his wit's end. He slammed the cover of his laptop shut and pushed back in his chair, scrubbing his right hand over his face. His hand instinctively went from his face to his left shoulder, fingers worked their way under the collar of his shirt and he felt the still tender bite at the base of his neck. He felt nothing but hatred towards the man who’d done this to him. Tales were told to Omegas, that when their time came and their Alpha bonded them, they’d feel nothing but pure ecstasy. John had felt  _ nothing _ but hatred, fear, and pain. With a sigh, he pulled his hand from his shoulder, adjusted the collar so it covered the bite and pushed away from his chair. He was wallowing, and his therapist had told him when he felt like wallowing, to go for a walk. 

He was, despite the awful living arrangements, only a short walk away from St. James Park. Within fifteen minutes he was standing by a pond, tossing bits of bread towards the ducks. He didn’t have much in the way of food, but he hated the end bits in loaves of bread so he’d save them for the ducks. He was just breaking up a heel when his mobile rang for the first time in a week and a half. Hardly daring to hope that it could be a call about a job John tossed the bread, mostly whole, into the water and swiped answer on his screen.

“ _ Watson.”  _

_ “Yes, hello, John Watson?” _

_ “Doctor John Watson, yeah.” _

_ “Doctor Watson, hi. This is Detective Inspector Lestrade calling for NSY.” _

_ “Erm, hello.” _

John was all ears, he’d applied for a position as a medical examiner about a week ago, just on a whim. It wasn’t exactly the work he was trained for, but he’d take anything right now.

_ “Listen, I know this is short notice but…”  _ there was a pause, and John could tell the man on the other line, Lestrade, was searching for the right words.  _ “We’ve, as of oh five minutes ago, lost another Medical Examiner and rather need one. What with protocol.” _

_ “I’m sorry? Lost? You mean they’ve died?” _ __  
_  
_ __ “Fuck, no, I mean they're well, they’ve all put in for a transfer. We sometimes work with a consultant, on difficult cases, and well, he can be just as difficult as the case. He works for free… so we sort of can’t control his attitude.”

_ “So, he’s a prick?”  _ John cringed, even though the DI had just sworn, it probably would be best if he watched his language with a potential employer.

_ “Oh, you could say that. But he’s brilliant, so he gets away with it. Listen, like I said, it’s short notice, but if I text you the address would you be willing to come to, well, there’s no sugar coating it, a murder scene? He’ll be here, and our current MI is threatening to quit if I make him work in this case.” _

_ “I assume…”  _ John paused to wonder just how tactfully he could request payment,  _ “There’s some sort of financial…” _ __  
_  
_ __ “Oh, shit, yeah, we’ll pay, It’s decent pay, what to make up for him. We’ll work on the paperwork to make your position official after we get the examination out of the way, faster we process the scene the faster we can get to work.”

John tossed the last of the bread into the pond and watched as two ducks fought over it.

_ “Yeah, text me the address, I’ll be there as soon as I can. Oh, and, thanks.”  _

_ “No, thank you, you’re doing the yard a favor. And if you can put up with him, we’ll put you on as many cases as you want. I read your file, know you were wounded, so we’ll sit down and talk about your limits after this body’s been processed, yeah?”  _

_ “Right.”  _ John patted his pockets, making sure he had his keys, then began walking out of the park towards were ever hovering taxis were seemingly always waiting. 

He arrived at the scene of the crime with trepidation. His heightened senses as an Omega made the stench of death more pungent. He was no stranger to the scent, having of course been a doctor in the middle of a battlefield, but that didn't lessen the stench one iota. He was thankful that the murder was, apparently, outside. 

A tall middle-aged man with salt and pepper hair, more salt than pepper met him just outside the roped off scene. John walked over, extended his hand and introduced himself. The man, as it turned out, was Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. 

"Doctor Watson," the DI took John's hand in both of his and shook it enthusiastically, "can't thank you enough. A bit unorthodox, how we're going about getting you on the team, but no one will work with  _ him _ ."

"And who exactly," John asked as he ducked under the yellow crime scene tape, "is this  _ him?  _ You said on the phone that he was a, erm, consultant. Which means you call him in to work with you. And if no one will work with him… well, why call him?" John had hardly finished speaking when he inwardly kicked himself. Who was he to kick a gift horse in the face, if this man was offering him a job who was he to point out the flaws?

Thankfully Lestrade seemed to have already thought about this conundrum before. A weary sigh escaped his lips and he stopped walking long enough to turn to John. 

"Because god help us, he's the best. When we have no leads, or there's a serial killer out there, we call him. He's probably the truest living definition of mad genius. He can tell where a man's been by looking at the mud on his shoes, or if someone is lying… he's… a genius. But his manners," the detective gave a harsh laugh and trailed off. 

"So, what is it you need from me, here, today.* John was, if he were being honest, intrigued. 

They began walking again. John looked around and shivered. They were in a seedy part of town, it looked like at one time this patch of overgrown trees and shrubs had been a park. They even passed by some rusted playground equipment. As they drew closer to the back end of the  _ park  _ John's heightened senses kicked in. He could smell her, the omega, and it was revolting. He covered up his look of disgust by feigning a sneeze then, breathing from his mouth followed the detective. 

"We have a forensic officer, Anderson," Lestrade began to answer John's question, "he'll do most of the work until we have you properly vetted. We just need you to give us cause of death and approximate time of death. Then you and I will go to the yard and fill out the paperwork making all this official." 

"Right. So time and cause of death." John nodded and stopped walking when Lestrade stopped at a table. He grabbed a pair of gloves and nodded to do the same. 

A few minutes later, dressed in a sort of clean suit, John was lead by Lestrade through the tented off area. The body, the female Omega, was on her stomach, clothed. John couldn't help being thankful for that. 

"Not a sexual attack then?" He knew, as working MI on this case he'd at least be in charge of, if not performing the autopsy, but it didn't hurt to get as much information as he could now. 

"Doesn't appear to be," Lestrade said, crossing his arms and glanced down at the woman. 

John nodded, then without waiting for an invitation brushed past a tall man, an Alpha, wearing a dark gray overcoat. Careful not to disturb the area around the woman he crouched on his haunches for a closer look. "She hasn't been moved yet?"

"No, when I went out to grab you Anderson was just taking pictures. Anderson?”

A tall thin man, John guessed was a beta judging by the lack of pheromones, turned around and gave the DI a seething look. John got the impression, however, that the look was not because of him, rather because the other man hovering over the body.

“I managed to take pictures before  _ he _ got here.” the man named Anderson said, casting a sidelong look at the tall Alpha in the dark coat. The Alpha looked up and John, from his position crouched on the ground, had a clear view of the pale angular face. The face would have been handsome, exotic even if the Alpha hadn’t been scowling. 

“Who’s this?” the Alpha asked Lestrade, nodding his head towards John. 

“Our MI, play nice, I’m sick of hiring them.” Lestrade sighed, “Just tell me what you’ve got. Please.”

Thinking Lestrade was talking to him John set to work.

“Well, she was strangled, you can see bruises from…. Fingers…” John pointed to the woman's neck, “Omega... “ he muttered, “bonded, Probably her Alpha.” 

The tall Alpha scoffed and John looked up at him.

“I’m sorry, do you find something funny about death? Or just the bit about Omegas being slaughtered by their Alphas, in most cases because they refuse to be breeding factories?” John felt heat rising to his cheeks, he took a calming breath then tore his eyes from the man and went back to the examination. 

The Alpha blatantly rolled his eyes at John’s hostel remark. “First of all, I find the whole notion of using Omega’s as  _ breeding factories _ , as your plebeian vocabulary so eloquently put it, to be outdated and completely unnecessary,” the critical gaze of this Alpha quickly focused back onto the much smaller man in front of him, “What I do find humorous is that you believed that Inspector Lestrade was actually wasting his time in asking  **you** what you thought.” 

“Oh, I’m sorry… but who’s actually getting paid here? Aren’t you here on what, a freelance basis?” John snorted and resisted the urge to adjust his collar, this was one Alpha he certainly wasn’t keen to let know he was an Omega, let him think I’m a beta. John made a point not to look at the tall Alpha, he ignored the man, and went about his job as best as he knew how. Lestrade had been correct when he said he was only needed for cause and time of death. Within a half hour, he and the DI were seated inside the DI’s car and headed to NSY.

It took nearly three hours, the paperwork, and John’s shoulder was cramping from having to fill out dozens of papers. He’d been spared the autopsy, the MI currently on payroll by NSY was more than willing to perform that gruesome task if it meant he didn’t have to deal with the Consultant. John wasn’t sure what was worse, the employment paperwork or the stack of paperwork required for the case. Lestrade handed John a cup of tea and apologized, saying next case it would be all on the computer, but that John would have to wait for IT to set him up with a login and a laptop. Still, it felt good to be working, to feel needed, anything even the pain in his shoulder, was better than sitting around his bedside just  _ waiting. _ With any luck, he could move out of that hell hole and into something quieter, and cleaner. 

With the paperwork finally complete, John rolled his head around his shoulders and let out a sigh. He got up from the empty desk he’d been using and stepped into Lestrade’s office. 

“All set, I think. I hope.” John gently massaged his left shoulder and offered the DI a weak smile. 

“Great. Thanks, by the way, for not running for the hills at Sherlock’s demeanor.”

“Sherlock? Oh, that posh Alpha who acted like he owned the place? I’ve dealt with worse, should have seen the chaps I had to deal with in the army.” John shrugged with his right shoulder and shook his head. “I can make it work.”

“Right. Let's see, today’s what…?” Lestrade looked hopelessly around his office, in search of a calendar.”

“Thursday,” John offered helpfully.

“Thursday. How ‘bout we have you come in, say 8 am Monday, we’ll go over the ropes, get you set up on our computer system, show you around. Today was… out of the ordinary, but we needed you.”

“Happy to help, and yeah, Monday.” 

They exchanged mobile numbers, that way John could contact the DI over the weekend should anything arise, then John picked his way out of the confusing office, where one cubical looked like the next, and eventually found his way to the lift. Outside he hired a cab and with a slightly lighter mood than he’d had when he set out for St. James’s park, headed home. 

After what seemed like an eternity the cab pulled into the carpark of his bedsit. Exhausted from the day, John fumbled in his wallet for a moment, paid the man then dug his keys out of his pocket. He was searching for his keyring for the right key, muttering about needing light, when his senses told him he wasn’t alone. That in itself wasn’t strange, there were always people coming and going here, John was hardly the only person living here. What  _ was _ strange, was the feeling that  _ he _ was being watched. 

A hint of light and cigarette smoke caught his attention off to the left of the door. He’d have to pass by whoever was standing there, smoking. The hair on John’s neck rose and he stamped down an uneasy feeling. Deciding to face whoever it was head-on, John clutched his keys in his hand, making a fist with the keys facing out in all directions should he need to punch his way out of the situation. It took his eyes a moment to adjust to the dim light and waited for another hint of red from the end of the cigarette. He walked straight towards that solitary point of light, noticing as he grew closer the sharp cheekbones the red light lit up. Not enough to ID the man, but the smell… John recognized the scent, though by the time he put scent to person the man had made himself known.

Sherlock reached up with one of his gloved hands, taking the cigarette between his forefinger and middle before pulling the thin cylinder of finely cut tobacco from his mouth. Exhaling, the smoke traveled up from his lungs and cascaded past his thin yet supple lips. The smoke then lingered in the air for a moment or two before completely dispersing, leaving John and Sherlock alone with each other once again.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” 

It took John a moment to register the voice, only having heard it twice before. He blinked into the darkness, eyes stinging from the smoke and inhaled, confirming that the man in front of him, lurking, no leaning on his shitty bedsit outer wall, was that posh Alpha from the crime scene. No wonder Lestrade had a hard time keeping doctors employed. Did.. what was his name.. Sher… something, follow  _ everyone _ home?    
  
“I’m sorry?”

Sherlock took a moment to enjoy another round of his cigarette before gracing the man in front of him with an answer. “Did the war damage your hearing as well as your mind? I asked, Afghanistan or Iraq?” 

“Afghanistan. I’m… how?” having half expected to be attacked, John had been thrown off kilter. He hadn’t said anything to  _ anyone _ about being in the military, Lestrade only knew because he’d seen his CV.

Sherlock propelled himself off the side of the building he was relaxing against and slowly made his way over to where John was standing. The Alpha was obviously in no hurry as his walk was both measured and, shockingly, rather unassuming for an Alpha. Coming to a stop a few paces away, Sherlock wrapped his lips around the pale filter of his cigarette, allowing his voice to permeate around it.

“You’re curious.” 

"About?" John kept his voice neutral and held his ground as the Alpha stepped into his space. Despite the unwelcome closeness, John didn't feel threatened, so he let his fist full of keys drop to his side. His shoulder was aching anyways.

“About how I knew that you had been in the military. You believed the only one who knew was Lestrade. Quite foolish of you to believe that no one else is privy to such information, but then again, most people are idiots.” 

"He said you were smart. Called you mad, too. I expect he was somewhat correct… though you don't look like a mad scientist to me. Possibly…" John stood tall, cocked his head to the side and tried to read the man in front of him. There was something  _ off.  _ As if the man didn't quite get social cues. "just above it all if I had to guess. And no, the fact that I was in the army is no secret. Hell, I'm staying in a military-funded bedsit, because my military pension hardly covers the cost of food. How  _ you _ knew…" John paused for a moment and took in the sharp features of the man in front of him. "I am curious about that."

Sherlock removed the cigarette from his mouth, though not before taking a rather large puff. He then directly exhaled the smoke in the face of the man in front of him. Outsiders would probably think that the act was one of misfortunate circumstances, maybe even accidental. However, it was clear by close up visual cues that Sherlock’s maneuver was quite deliberate. Sherlock then threw the now offending article onto the ground before stomping it out with his highly expensive footwear. He then brought his attention back to John and fixed the shorter man with a very condescending stare.

“To begin with, you have a meticulous way of carving up that poor excuse for a haircut. You’ve been out of the army for months, however, deeply ingrained habits die hard it seems. Also, your face is tanned,” Sherlock then flicked one of his gloved hands towards John’s hands, “but the skin above your wrists does not match. Therefore, you’ve been abroad not sunbathing.”

Sherlock dug one of his gloved hands into his coat pocket, pulling out his half-empty packet of smokes. He pulled out the, what was it now...his eighth cigarette for that day? Sherlock rolled it between his fingers, seemingly trying to decide if he wanted to light it or simply admire the craftsmanship. In the middle of his musings, his kaleidoscope gaze flicked back up towards John.

“You carry yourself differently than the usual boring masses. You’re someone who demands respect, though whether you deserve it remains to be seen. You also have a habit of scanning your surroundings, as if you are constantly on the alert. Not to mention, you tend to position yourself where you can observe the entire room; obvious marks of a military man,” Sherlock suddenly swiveled his head to look at where John was currently residing, “Also, no one would willingly live in such deplorable conditions. Only someone with a crap army pension or a drug addict would find themselves here.” 

“Remains to be seen?” John snorted, accidentally sending a spray of spittle in the direction of the stranger. “I was an army surgeon. Do you know what that means, precisely?” John stepped into the Alpha’s space, undaunted by their height difference and glared up at the man, “It means, _Sir_ , that I had to perform life-saving surgeries, under pressure, while guns and bombs went off around me without flinching one iota. I had to pull my injured friends off the battlefield and tell them they were okay, when in fact they were dying _in my arms._ So, if you think I’m so easily scared off by you and your Posh-Rich-Boy attitude, think again.” John squared his shoulders, wincing a bit at the pain in his left, briefly thinking that it was time to start physio before it was too late, “So, yes, in short, I am highly aware of my surroundings. I just spent 3 years in a place where _everything_ was a threat, and this,” he gestured to the shambles of a building behind the Alpha, “is how they thank me. A highly trained Army Captain, and field surgeon to boot, stuck in this hell hole because I dared get injured.” John stepped back, adjusted the collar of his shirt and gently massaged his left shoulder.

His heightened senses alerted him to the change in the Alpha’s mood. The cocky man had gone to something close to, self-satisfaction to mild annoyance. Though he couldn’t tell if the man was annoyed at him, or something else.

“Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve had a rather interesting day, and I’d like to go strip to my pants and have a cup of tea. Was there some other reason you sought me out at my home? Or was this just some sort of hazing?” Though he could tell the man meant him no immediate threat, John held onto his self-defensive anger and willed the man to step aside. 

“Oh,” he said offhandedly, “These things will kill you.” John plucked the unlit cigarette out of the hands of the Alpha and, holding the man’s gaze, snapped it in half and tossed it to the ground.

John wasn’t sure if he’d offended the Alpha, it wasn’t something Omegas could do naturally. They were born and bred to be in their alphas shadow their entire life, but John had spent enough time in the military to stand up for himself, he had never been a passive Omega, always fighting the expectations life had handed him. The man, he finally remembered was named Sherlock, kind of half smiled, a smile that didn’t quite reach his ears, and plucked another cigarette out of the pack in a defiant gesture, then stepped aside.

“Night,” John muttered, brushing past the Alpha, and just happened to inhale deeply, filling his senses with the scent of the man. It was overwhelming. Rumor has it, that an Omega could  _ smell _ and tell from the smell, their true bondmate, that the scent of the Alpha would send them to their knees out of pure desire. Looking back, John assumed the only reason he hadn’t fallen at Sherlock’s feet was because of the Alpha who currently laid claim on him, hundreds of miles away. Hopefully roasting to death in a hot desert. 

He fumbled with his keys for a moment, then smelled the scent of burning tobacco as he pushed his way into the lobby of his bedsit. In his flat, a small three-room, if you counted the bath, living quarters, he did just as he said he would to Sherlock. He stripped to his pants, then shamelessly wanked to the scent of Sherlock.

Over the next few months, John worked in many cases for NSY. Most of them, if he were being honest, were boring easy cases. Simple, “I found dear grandad dead when I went to check on him this morning,” cases, and he didn’t see Sherlock again for nearly two months. 

The case was a triple homicide, the three bodies on scene were, before John even arrived, identified by the mother of the Omega as Matthew Bryant 30, Omega, Cecilia Hines 34, Beta, and Ramsy Bryant, age six, son of Matthew. Everyone one scene was visibly affected by the sight of the small child, and even John found it hard not to let it get to him when he pronounced the cause of death. Everyone, that was, besides Sherlock. The Alpha strolled into the room, snapping a pair of latex gloves on, eyes darting over the scene. His eyes landed and stayed on John for what felt like a solid minute. John found he couldn’t hold the man’s gaze without fearing the Alpha would know  _ exactly _ what he had wanked too on their last visit. 

With as much professionalism as he could muster, John cleared his throat and willed himself to stop sniffing the air in a vain attempt to fill his senses with the smell of Sherlock over the scent of death. Remembering how abrupt Sherlock had been on the last case, John busied himself with rattling off what he knew. 

“He,” John pointed to Matthew, “died of blunt force trauma, he was hit on the back of his head. Early judgment, going by the blood on it, was with this.” With gloved hands, he picked up a cast iron bookend and held it for Sherlock to examine.    
  
“The beta, she was stabbed no fewer than six times. Loss of blood was her COD, she was the one who made the 999 call, sadly enough.” 

John paused, licking his lips and feeling a little bit of his heartbreak away as he turned their attention to the small child lying beside his Omega parent.    
  
“Poor kid was suffocated, it’s hard to say, but I put his time of death just a few minutes before the adults if you look at how he was trying to protect him. It almost looks like the child was in his Omega parents arms before the Omega was murdered.” 

The elderly Omega mother began weeping in the background, John did his best to ignore the poor parent. This was why Sherlock had been called in. It was most likely domestically, but the parents of the deceased Omega we wealthy, and were demanding fast results. Calling in Sherlock simply assured the yard that the case would be wrapped up by evening. 

“Mrs. Brooks there, was out taking the eldest child, twelve, Douglas, to football practice when this all occurred.” 

“This is hardly a six,” the Alpha said, wrinkling his nose in the direction of DI Lestrade, “Even you know the Alpha did it. She murdered her Omega, his mistress and their child, probably for leverage. She’s a drunk, Lestrade, you’ll find her in a pub called Bennies three blocks from here.” 

Instead of questioning  _ how  _ Sherlock knew, John stared at him in wonder. It wasn't until Sherlock turned his gaze from the grisly scene back to him that John realized he’d said out loud, instead of thinking it, “Fantastic.” 

“Proof, Sherlock.” Lestrade sounded wrung out as if he and Sherlock played this game every time. He scrubbed a hand through his hair and looked imploringly at Sherlock.

“The proof is all around you, if you’d only just look.” Sherlock snarled and twirled in his spot, pointing about him to the room. “Go through his mobile, I’m quite certain you’ll find messages between him and the beta here, bonding went wrong, after all, he was bonded to a drunk. Look at the bottles on the counter! Either they’d just hosted a kegger, or someone in this family has a drinking problem. My money is on the Alpha. As for bennies, there’s a bottle opener on the counter sporting their logo, as well as a mug. Send a car, pick her up, I’m sure given enough pressure she’ll admit to the whole thing. 

"Fantastic," repeated John, looking around and seeing the evidence all around him as if it had been alarmingly obvious the entire time. 

"You know you do that out loud?" the Alpha cast a quizzical gaze in John's direction, making him blush.

"Sorry," John muttered quickly, but Sherlock quirked a smile and that single smile sent tendrils of pleasure coursing through John's body, turning his insides to jelly. 

"No... it's, it's fine," Sherlock replied, and then the quirk of his lips became a full smile, and oh did the smile do things to John. John wanted to apologize for being such a jerk during their first meeting. He wanted to praise this Alpha again, to coax out smile after smile, knowing he'd caused it. Instead, he cleared his throat, broke their gaze and busied himself with packing up his medical kit. 

Some point, while his back was turned, the Alpha left. Leaving John wondering when he'd see him again. As it turned out, it would not be long. When John was finally cleared to leave the crime scene, Sherlock was waiting just outside the roped off area, a lit cigarette between his lips, clearing waiting for something. Or someone.

"John!" gracefully he pulled the cigarette out of his mouth and held it between two fingers, pacing the yellow tape in the direction John was walking. John was struck with the image of a prowling panther.

"Doctor Watson," he tried correcting, though somehow he knew his attempt would fall on deaf ears.

"Still at the bedsit, I see." It was a statement, not a question, and John found he couldn't stamp down his curiosity. 

"And you know this, how exactly? Been following me again? Lurking in the shadows like a vampire."

"Your shoes," the Alpha said as if that 100% cleared everything up.

"My shoes?" John rolled his eyes, then looked down at his tan Loake dress shoes.

"Yes, your shoes, they're new. If you'd found a flat here in London you wouldn't have money to spend on new shoes. So, new shoes mean you're still at the bedsit. Child's play."

"Fine yes, I'll play along." John rolled his eyes and ducked under the yellow tape to the side of the scene. "I'm still in that horrid place," he shifted his medical bag from his left hand to his right and flexed his left shoulder a bit.

"War injury? You what, got shot?" Sherlock said after looking at John with narrowed eyes.

"War injury, yeah," John said, not answering the bit about being shot. He did his best to remain honest, and if people wanted to believe he'd been shot rather than attacked and nearly raped by some blood-hungry Alpha, then he'd let them believe that. 

"I have my eyes on a place in central London, landlady owes me a favor, rent is cheap. There are two bedrooms." Sherlock fell into stride beside John, and John wished he wouldn't. The Alpha smelled divine. He'd always believed it to be a myth, about being able to smell your ideal mate. But here he was, bonded, and he still wanted to stop, grab Sherlock and rub his face all over the man.

"And you're telling me this.... because?" John spared the Alpha a glance and was struck with how young he looked. It was a complete 180 from how he'd been at the crime scene, he'd been so sure of himself, confident. Now he appeared shy, uncertain as if he were the new kid at school asking if anyone wanted to play with him. "Are you.. you're offering the second room to me? As what? Flatmates?" John was astounded, but the idea was intriguing, even if it meant he'd have to face living with an Alpha and hiding his bite daily. Surely the offer would be redacted if Sherlock knew he was an Omega, wouldn't it? Better not risk it.

Two days later John found himself moving in to 221B Baker Street. The flat was messy, Sherlock clearly had never lived in a military atmosphere, but John found the clutter comforting. Oh, and did the flat smell like Sherlock. It was glorious. John had to actually stop, halfway up the stairs with an armful of boxes just to catch his breath when he'd first entered. He'd passed it off as a stitch in his side, and Sherlock Holmes, as he'd learned was the man's full name, simply shrugged and carried his load, a box of John's medical books, up the remaining stairs.

John stood on the landing, staring after the Alpha for a long moment, silently cruising himself for agreeing to this whole situation. Yes, this flat was a much nicer place than his bedsit, but he was beginning to wonder if he'd completely cracked up, agreeing to move in with an Alpha. Especially the Alpha his senses told him was "the one". Even from here, from halfway between the hall and the flat, all John could smell was him. Sherlock smelled like the finest, sweetest tobacco mixed with honey. His scent was intoxicating, it made his head swim and his knees weak.

John had spent the night before, his last night at the shitty bedsit, searching online for stories of Omegas and Alphas claiming they'd gotten together over the smell. Apparently, if the world wide web of relationship forums were to even remotely be trusted, it was no myth. It seems, if John hadn't been bonded as he was, Sherlock would be able to smell him, and it would affect him in much the same way. It would send the Alpha into courtship mode. Courtship, where an Alpha would promise to provide shelter, food, prove that they can take care of any potential future family.

But, wasn't that was Sherlock was doing? Their second meeting and he'd offered him a place to stay, nearly rent free? John groaned, his head hurting from overthinking and from lack of sleep, and trudged up the remaining stairs to the lounge where the majority of his belongings were stacked next to the sofa. He'd already seen his room, one more flight up. The landlady, Mrs. Hudson had shown it to him earlier while Sherlock was busy arguing with someone named Mycroft on the phone.

His bedroom, by some small miracle, didn't quite smell like the Alpha, and he wanted to keep it that way. Sherlock hadn't complained when John said to drop the boxes halfway to his room, and that only meant John had to run them up one, not two flights of stairs. John took it slow, taking a box at a time then unpacking it. His room was spacious and overlooked the street below. He had a bathroom attached to it, which he was secretly pleased about, though this one had just a toilet and sink, he'd still have to shower downstairs. It was late evening by the time John finished unpacking. his back ached and his shoulder was still, but his stomach was growling, he'd eat then take a hot shower afterwards. He headed downstairs and found Sherlock sitting in an ugly leather chair cleaning a violin. The Alpha looked up and stared at John with such intensity that John felt as if he were naked on stage. 

"There's a good Chinese at the end of Baker Street, I could order dinner. I'm afraid I'm not in the habit of keeping food around. We'll have to do some shopping tomorrow."

Shelter, food, shopping. John's Omega brain preened, but he stamped down the feeling and simply nodded. 

"Ta, I don't have to work tomorrow, unless I get called in, so we can stock the fridge then. I enjoy cooking."

"I know, and good. I don't usually bore myself with trivial things like cooking." Sherlock put his violin down carefully, John noticed, almost reverently, then stood and fixed his suit. "Coming? No, wait, you're back is sore and you've overworked your shoulder. You were planning on eating then taking a shower. Go shower, I'll be back shortly with food. There are towels in the cupboard. Make yourself at home."

"Pull yourself together, Watson!" John chided himself as he simultaneously yanked on his cock, images of Sherlock sitting in that chair fingering a violin bow filling his mind as he came, letting the hot water wash it, and his guilt down the drain. As he washed up he promised himself it would be the last time he masturbated to the thought of the Alpha. Especially now that he was living with him. 

It was a promise he kept for roughly two months. Then the time came when his natural heat cycle would have been upon him. Due to the bond, and separation from his Alpha, he wouldn't have a true heat. However, that didn't keep all the symptoms from rearing their ugly heads. For the rest of his life, or the rest of the bond, whichever came first, every few months he would have to suffer through a week of being miserable. He woke up that morning both physically and emotionally sensitive. His already heightened senses were increased tenfold, to the point where he could smell, from his bedroom all the way down two flights of stairs, that Mrs. Hudson had chosen coffee over tea to go with her breakfast. His backside was wet, a little of his natural biology making itself noticed, and the smell of Sherlock did nothing to help his situation. 

Over the course of their rooming together, John had devised creative ways to hide his bite. Most mornings he would shower early, change for work (or just the day) in the bathroom. On especially lazy days where he couldn't be arsed to put clothes on until at least 10 am, he would simply wear his dressing gown and drape his damp towel over his shoulder, then go sit in his chair and read the newspaper. He wore only collared shirts and had even gone out and purchased a few short sleeve shirts with a collar. All in all, it worked. Better yet, it seemed natural.

However, this particular morning, waking up in his own slick, even his sheets felt scratchy to him. The last thing he wanted was to have a stiff collar scratching up and down his neck all day. He shot Lestrade a text, telling the DI that he wasn't feeling well and to forward any cases to Glover (the only other MI on staff who could even remotely tolerate Sherlock) and that he expected to be back on his feet in a day or two. 

As for dealing with Sherlock, perhaps if he pretended to actually be sick the Alpha would leave him alone. Theoretically, except for food and to shower, he could avoid the lounge, thus avoiding most of his chances of running into Sherlock.

Avoiding all instinctual desires to pleasure himself John laid in bed for nearly an hour. He could hear Sherlock moving around downstairs, could smell Sherlock every time the alpha moved. After an hour, however, John couldn't take it any longer. Blessedly, Sherlock began playing the violin, which meant there was a good chance he was looking out the window or simply just lost in thought.

Thinking this was as good a time as any to get up, and trusting that his natural scent couldn't be smelled by anyone other than his bonded Alpha, he gathered up his softest button up, a pair of slacks and his most worn out, comfortable pants and headed downstairs.

Sherlock was, in fact, looking out the window and paid John no heed whatsoever when he ducked through the living quarters towards the only shower. He took a long hot shower, decided against shaving, hoping the stubble would help aid to his "I'm not feeling well" case then dressed. 

Sherlock was still composing, so he took his time rummaging around the fridge looking for an easy breakfast. He was craving protein, but in the end, he settled on a bagel nearly drowned in cream cheese and tea with a little bit of sugar added into it. 

He sat, carefully, at the small table in the kitchen and was just taking his first sip of tea when Sherlock waltzed into the room on his way into his bedroom. However, he stopped halfway through the kitchen, turned, and stared at John.

"You look... something's wrong. Something's different." He stepped closer, and John had to nearly bury his nose into his mug of tea to help keep the scent of the Alpha of his dreams from flooding his senses. He didn't trust himself, not like this.

"Don't feel well." John tried to keep his voice even and was pleased to find he at least had control over that. Sherlock still stared at him with narrowed eyes, making John feel like he was some sort of specimen on a glass tray, so John faked a cough. "Might be contagious, best not get to close." 

Though still suspicious, Sherlock took a step back and considered him. There was something off about his friend. The thought gave him pause. Friend? Yes, he guessed friend was the closest word to how he felt for this strange man who came into his life so uniquely.

John had woken up late, much later than the military trained man normally woke, and through his back had been turned to John when he'd finally come downstairs to shower, Sherlock could smell the guilt bubbling off the man.

That was another odd thing about John. He had no exact smell, as an Alpha Sherlock had a good sense of smell, he could detect if someone was lying, just with his nose. But he never got much off John. It was as if John had been born something new, something not quite beta... just... normal. Oh, he could smell the man's moods, but never much more than that. It intrigued him to no end. Perhaps it had something to do with his time in the military. Regardless, he saw it as a puzzle to be solved by him, if it were solvable.

And now here he was, smelling of guilt and a tiny bit of fear, dressed in a tattered polo shirt and sweatpants. As someone who was strict about his own appearance, he couldn't help but silently judge John for his worse-than-usual clothing choice. Aside from what would clearly be a solid reason to call the fashion police, John looked like shit. He was pale, he couldn't sit still as if he had ants crawling over his skin, and now he was coughing? Sherlock couldn't tell if the man was faking or if he really was coming down with something. Perhaps, if John didn't wash his mug out Sherlock could swab it and run a few tests on John's saliva.

"Your clothes don't match." Is all Sherlock said and continued on his mission to go check on the mold cultures he had growing beneath the sink in the bathroom. He wanted to see how the steam from John's shower had affected their growth. 

John's period of discomfort lasted for two days. He was thankful to report, to himself, that it hadn't been terrible. Knowing what to expect in the future he could probably even work through it. In fact, working through it would limit his exposure to close proximity to Sherlock, and his drug-like scent, probably making this pseudo heat easier to bear. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was going to be posted on Sunday, but tomorrow is my boyfriend and I's anniversary so I don't know where the weekend will take us. Hopefully somewhere quiet!
> 
> **** TRIGGER****
> 
> Mention of drug use

Over the next six months, John and Sherlock's relationship went from "Casual acquaintances" to firm friends. Their unique friendship was kindled that January after John moved in when he'd help Sherlock go a bit off the books with a case. Sherlock was, as it turned out, a consultant of sorts. People, not just NSY, came to him with problems that needed solving.

Sherlock had been called into this case, seemingly a string of serial suicides, after the fourth body was found. John had been the MI for the previous three, and had in a breach of yard security, told Sherlock all about them. Something didn't sit well with him. They weren't normal suicides if such a thing were possible. 

When the lady dressed all in pink was found in an abandoned house, three floors up, John finally convinced Lestrade to call in Sherlock. Maybe it was some sort of online dare game gone wrong, which is how he pitched it to the DI, and he consented. John was already on scene when Sherlock waltzed in.

Within two minutes he'd thrown every ounce of knowledge the Yard had out the window and was dashing off shouting something about "Pink!" and "Case, suitcase!"

When John got home from work that night, he walked into their lounge and found Sherlock digging around inside a pink case that sat open on a chair.

"That's... the pink lady's case. You?" 

"Found it in a skip a few blocks away from the scene, wasn't that difficult once I applied my methods."

"That's evidence." 

"Evidence to what? As far as NSY is concerned it's a suicide." Sherlock scoffed and sat back in his chair with a frustrated growled, flipping the lid of the case closed with a sharp flick of his wrist.

"Still, it's an open case, if that belongs to her..." John was silenced by the look Sherlock gave him, a mixture of loathing and how-can-you-be-so-stupid. 

"Her mobile phone is missing!" Sherlock let out another growl, a deep guttural noise that was purely Alpha and ran a hand through his disheveled curls.

"Can I borrow your phone?" Sherlock, somehow, transformed his face into a look of pure pleading. The exact idealization of "Puppy dog look" and John found himself unable to resist. He handed his phone over, watched as Sherlock sent out a rapid text, then handed it back.

"Now we wait."

"We?" John asked as he pulled up his sent messages and read what Sherlock had written. "You blacked out?"

"No, She did, the pink lady," Sherlock said as if that were enough explanation. 

The text led them on a wild chase through London after, it turned out, the taxi driver killer. A man who John ended up shooting to protect Sherlock from the poisoned pill he'd used to kill the previous four people. John's Omega heart, despite not being bonded to Sherlock, screamed out at the thought of losing Sherlock.

Sherlock helped John get all traces of gunpowder off his person that night. As Sherlock said, he probably wouldn't face jail time, but avoiding the court case and possible retaliation at work, John allowed his friend to help sweep things under the rug. He, however, did not allow Sherlock to discreetly discard of his gun. So far, the only three LIVING souls who knew he had the gun in his possession were himself, Sherlock (now) and his CO who turned a blind eye when his gun "didn't show back up" after he was wounded. John had seen too much shit at war to make him feel comfortable without one now. 

After that bonding moment of "Man killing man to save another man" their relationship sharply changed. Gone were the semi-awkward mornings sharing a lounge while they (John, Sherlock never seemed to sleep) shared their first-morning cup of tea. All awkwardness at sharing a flat seemed to dissipate that night and they quickly fell into a comfortable rhythm. A rhythm that John's Omega side relished and ached for. It was easy to forget that Sherlock still (to the extent of John's knowledge) still didn't know about his secondary gender. Which meant John was constantly reminding himself to be vigilant and not give his Omega habits heed.

Even though it would take him a good solid ten minutes each night to remake, every morning he would crawl out of his nest of blankets and re-make his bed to military standards. John also needed to remind himself daily to not make an extra effort to touch Sherlock. He instead, contented himself with the soft brushes of Sherlock's long fingers when he passed over a mug of tea, or the "Right behind you" touches to his back when they were working in close proximity. 

John would find his mind drifting off when they spent a quiet night in. His Omega side tricked, both by being bonded and living with an Alpha, into thinking all was as it should be. He was lulled into, but not falsely, a sense of comfort. On nights like this current one, with rain falling outside, Sherlock standing by the window composing, John found it hard not to blurt out that he was bonded but wished it had been by Sherlock. Instead, he sighed and turned back to his computer, poking away key by key as he typed up the entry to his latest blog post. 

On top of working for the Yard, after the case with the Cabby, (That John Called A Study in Pink) John had started going out with Sherlock on his cases. Sometimes the cases overlapped, and Lestrade admitted that he was secretly pleased that John would go with Sherlock, partly to ensure that Sherlock didn't break too many laws in one night, John had started a blog depicting his adventures with Sherlock. It had become a hit nearly overnight, with half the Yarders following him as soon as word got out. So, instead of confessing his heart's desire to the Alpha at the window, John typed. He figured by now it was too late to confess his little secret. So much time had gone by since their first meeting, either Sherlock would take offense, or see him differently. Or both, and John wasn't sure he could stomach that.

Sherlock's temper was unpredictable at best, and John's mind supplied him with scenarios where Sherlock would shout, tell him to get out, to move out. Or another where Sherlock was so hurt because he felt that John didn't trust him. No, it was too late to easily tell Sherlock, plus what would he say? "Oh, by the way, I'm an omega and can have ass babies, but don't worry I'm bonded. Bonded by some prick who lives thousands of miles away, so you don't even have to worry about a thing." No, certainly not that.

Another month went by, Autumn was turning the evenings crisp. Their flat was drafty, as old housed had want to be. John was sitting in his chair reading with a blanket draped over his legs. Ever since Afghanistan, his body seemed to tolerate the warm much better than the cold. He was a few chapters in, his fingers starting to feel the cold when Sherlock swooped seemingly out of nowhere with an armful of logs and lit a fire in the fireplace. 

Perhaps it was from feeling cared for, a feeling his Omega side clung to like a lifeline no matter how hard he tried to ignore it, that lowered his defenses, but all of the locked bundle of consciousness that was his Alpha broke free from their prison. In a matter of a nanosecond, John went from sitting in his chair to sprawled on the floor clutching his head in agony.

He was so wrapped up in what he was feeling from his Alpha, (anger, lust... he was... fucking someone he realized with revulsion and pure possession) that he didn't even realize Sherlock had instantly come to his aid. His senses were overpowered by the emotions his Alpha was forcing upon him as if the Alpha wanted John to know what he was doing, who he was doing, that he began whimpering and convulsing on the floor. He spat out a feral snarl when Sherlock held him to the floor to stop him moving, then caved under the Alpha's presence and instead of fighting clung to him.

His fingers found Sherlock's back, and he clung. He clung for dear life, inhaling the scent of the Alpha he wished he had. Fifteen minutes went by and the scent, little by little, ounce by ounce, filled his lungs and cleared his head enough that with agonizing effort John was able to force his wayward Alpha back into its box, and mentally sealed it, promising himself he'd never ever let him back out. It was then another ten minutes after that before John pulled himself from Sherlock's lap and knelt on the floor a small distance away. He looked up into Sherlock's eyes a little sheepishly but any embarrassment he might have had dissipated when he saw the level of concern written on the detective's face, a face that so often was stoic and unreadable. 

"Are you okay?" 

Even his voice was dripping with concern. John licked his lips and nodded slightly, not trusting his own voice.

"What was that?" Sherlock didn't seem suspicious, he just seemed genuinely concerned.

"Flashback... war..." John scrubbed a hand through his hair and let his head hang loosely, chin touching his collarbone for a moment before sucking in a lungful of air. "Happens, usually as nightmares, this, this was new." He hopped Sherlock would buy it. It wasn't a lie exactly... but nor was it the exact truth. He just didn't want to tell Sherlock that he'd literally  _ felt _ the Alpha who forced his bond onto him fucking another person, that he sensed every ounce of outrage that Alpha at losing John. 

"That was…" Sherlock sat back, leaning his back against his chair, one leg bent, foot flat on the floor the other stretched out in front of him. 

"Intense… and I hope it never happens again.” John let out a shaky sigh then struggled to his feet then ran a hand under his shirt collar, feeling the rough bite with the tips of his fingers. He noticed Sherlock watching him so he craned his neck and made it look like he was massaging stiff muscles. 

That was when Sherlock first began to suspect that there was something, something deeper and very important, going on that john wasn't telling him. He held his suspicion at bay for now though. He knew John well enough by now to know that the ex-soldier had a very strong moral compass and that he wouldn't withhold information to be hurtful or spiteful. Whatever John was hiding, he was hiding because he thought it was for the best. That did not mean, however, that Sherlock wouldn't do everything in his power to find out. After all, he'd just witnessed his friend deal with the aftermath of what must have been a highly traumatic event. He made a mental note to get his brother, who was essentially the British government, to send him John's military file. 

Before he could do that, however, something deep inside of him yearned to comfort John, to help this moment of terror pass and fade away into nothingness. He picked up the book John had been reading from where it fell on the floor and took care to straighten a page out that had crumpled beneath its own weight before setting it on the arm of John's chair. He looked over at John, who was awkwardly rubbing his shoulder, then clapped his hands together.

"A bath! Why don't you go take a hot bath, take a glass of wine or beer with you? The hot water should do your shoulder good. I'll order dinner. How about Angelos?" Sherlock didn't give John time to reply, simply shooed him up the stairs, "go get yourself a change of clothes, I'll get you..." he considered John for a moment then decided, "a beer. It'll be in the bath for you. By the time you're out, I'll have dinner all set."

John didn't even have time to brush things off or to tell Sherlock to forget about it. He was being corralled into the hallway by Sherlock, and weather Sherlock knew it or not his Alpha pheromones were in full swing. John was, after his ordeal, next to powerless and allowed himself to be herded up the stairs. 

When John had finished selecting a warm turtleneck and pyjama pants, Sherlock was gone. Presumably to collect dinner as Angelo didn't deliver no matter how much Sherlock pestered him. True to the Alpha's word, there was a bottle of beer set on the side of the tub.

Sherlock used his time walking to Angelo's, not to order food but to call his brother. 

"I didn't know your phone could make calls," was Mycroft's way of answering his call, hinting strongly at the fact that Sherlock preferred to text, and would usually (always) ignore Mycroft's phone calls. 

"Yes, well, it is freezing out. I'm wearing gloves, can't type."

"Ahh yes, couldn't take a taxi."

"It's a five-minute walk, not all of us are afraid of exercise."

"It's always such a pleasure to talk with you. Tell me, what do you need."

Straight to the point. Good. Sherlock was already beginning to regret this call. 

"John Watson's military file."

"And the keys to Buckingham Palace while I'm at it?"

"What do you mean?" Sherlock snapped, the cold and his brother grating his nerves. 

"When you first had your little fantasy soldier boy move in with you, I tried acquiring his folder. However, it seems like someone with much higher clearance has locked his file shut. I couldn't even get a copy of his enlistment agreement."

"What?" Sherlock abruptly stopped walking, causing a couple behind him to awkwardly bump into him. 

"Rather basic, but yes, my thoughts exactly. Someone is trying to cover something up. He doesn't strike me as Special Forces, now does he?"

"Special Forces? No...." after a moment of thought Sherlock agreed and began walking again. 

“Why ask me now, Sherlock? After all this time? Why now?" Mycroft's voice carried the same level of suspicion that Sherlock had felt while watching John try to pull himself back together.

"Can you try again, maybe promise someone not to start a war as a favor... Please?" Sherlock added then not giving his older brother time to reply disengaged the call and put his phone into his coat pocket. 

He walked the rest of the way, a block and a half, to Angelo's deep in thought. What had happened during John's time in the Military that was apparently so secret that even Mycroft didn't know. His brother, he'd thought until now, had the highest clearance level there was. This news was perturbing, to say the least. Sherlock was so taken by this puzzle unfolding around him that he walked straight past Angelo's. It wasn't until he came to the end of the block, and he had to pick between crossing the street or turning left or right did Sherlock realize he'd overshot his destination. He quickly backtracked and was at Angelo's in short order.

While waiting for dinner, he didn't order anything specifically, Angelo had a knack for knowing what to feed himself and John, Sherlock sat and pulled his mobile back out of his pocket. He stared at it for a moment, then brought up the browser and typed in "John H. Watson" and waited to see what the internet had on his flatmate.

***

John let out a sigh of pleasure as he sank beneath the warm water. Before getting into the tub he'd used a generous amount of Sherlock's shampoo and had made a sort of impromptu bubble bath for himself. The warm bathroom air was starting to cause little beads of sweat to form on his forehead when he took his first sip of cold beer. It was heavenly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd had a bubble bath. Probably back in uni when some girlfriend thought it would be romantic. This, however, _ was _ romantic. And deep down inside that was what truly bothered John. 

Still, this is exactly what he needed. However, somewhere halfway through his bottle of beer (on a mostly empty stomach), John realized something was bothering him. Something more than just his bonded Alpha taking over as he had. Sherlock had…  _ cared _ for him. More than just a friend seeing another friend deal with a panic attack. (Or whatever the fuck you wanted to call that.) No, something had triggered Sherlock’s instinctual Alpha traits to care. Definitely not a trait Sherlock normally portrayed openly. 

Perhaps it was the beer, but John decided to rationalize it by ignoring it. What did it matter if he pretended it hadn’t happened? Once he stepped out of the bathroom, he told himself, he’d forget about it. A day, then a week, then two weeks went by, however, and he couldn’t forget about it. Every time he saw Sherlock, his brain seemed to supply a neon flashing sign that said “ALPHA” in blinking letters over Sherlock’s head. It was all he could to act normal. Still, neither of them mentioned the incident.

December came, blustery and uncharacteristically fridged. With snow on the ground, and holiday shenanigans all around, John found it easy to slip back into familiar kinship with his flatmate. John helped Sherlock decorate. Aka, John decorated and Sherlock voiced criticism, but in the end, their flat was as festive as Speedies storefront. (The Cafe just below their flat.) John felt accomplished, proud even. He was running on holiday spirit, brimming with it in fact, so when Harry called and suggested John come spend some time with her for Christmas he readily agreed. 

Not thinking it to be a big deal, he told Sherlock the day before Christmas. Sherlock was sitting in the kitchen wearing safety goggles, bent over a tray of something that was steaming and eating away at a spoon, (acid no doubt) when John broke the news.

“So, I’ll be going to Harry’s for Christmas. Not like we had much for plans here. I’ll be back in a few days, probably Friday.” Christmas was on Wednesday, so that meant three nights away from Baker Street.

Sherlock harrumphed and otherwise acted like he hadn’t heard, or that it was of no great interest to him, so John simply shrugged and went up to his room to pack a small overnight bag. 

Christmas morning wasn’t even over before John, annoyed that Harry hadn’t spent a single minute of his time there sober, grabbed his bag and stormed out of her house. Clara, her wife (though John smelled a divorce in the air) kindly offered John a ride home, saving him having to pay holiday rates for a cab ride across town. When he arrived home, he stood on the pavement and looked up at their flat perplexed. The faerie lights he’d placed around the window sills were turned off, and it looked as if not a single light in the flat was on. If John thought watching his sister parade around drunk had been a sight he would soon realize that nothing would be worse than what he arrived home to. 

Worse than his sister, was the sight of Sherlock clad in loose-fitting pajamas and his blue silk dressing gown, sprawled on the floor of their lounge between their two chairs. His head was resting on the Union Jack throw pillow that John usually kept on his chair, and on the floor next to his left arm was an elastic band and a hypodermic needle. John’s heart sank at the sight, and he dropped his bag on the floor just within the door. Lestrade had warned him, early on in their sharing a flat, that Sherlock had been in and out of trouble with the Yard for drug abuse. 

John made a split-second decision and dashed to the bathroom where he had a small first aid kit stashed under the sink. Then he knelt on the floor by Sherlock’s torso and placed his fingers on the Alpha’s neck, praying to anyone who would listen for there to be a pulse.

He found it and was relieved to feel how steady it was. So Sherlock had simply passed out then. This was not an overdose, probably. He then pulled open one eyelid, then the other, checking his eyes. Once he was satisfied that Sherlock was in no immediate danger he pushed the kit to the side and went back to the bathroom, this time coming back with a wet flannel as cold as the tap would allow. This is placed directly to the pulse point on Sherlock’s neck, causing the Alpha to lurch awake. 

Sherlock came too instantly, gasping wildly as he slowly blinked himself back into awareness. He tried to swear, but his voice cracked and he lay there smacking his lips together.

“What the  _ hell _ were you thinking?” Now that the initial fear of losing Sherlock was gone, John was angry, and he made no effort to hide it. He picked up the needle and waved it in Sherlock’s face before chucking in the general direction of the kitchen to be disposed of later. “I’m gone one bloody day and I find you on the floor passed out! What if you had overdosed and I hadn’t come home? What then… hmm?”

“John… you’re home. Why… are you... Oh shit.” Sherlock struggled to his feet, waving off John’s (angry) attempt to help him. He fell twice, catching himself both times on his chair, before he managed to stand upright and took three shaky steps to the table in the middle of the room where he instantly began rifling through papers, stuffing them all in a manila folder.

Meaning it as a kind gesture, to show Sherlock he was mad but not so mad he didn’t care, John went to help Sherlock. However, the first paper he picked up caused him to stop dead in his tracks. It was his, albeit heavily redacted enlistment agreement, completely equipped with the picture they took of him after boot camp. He stared at it, dumbfounded for a moment before turning to a shaking Sherlock and holding it up for him to see. 

“So, you’re what? Spying on me? Researching me?” Even as he spoke some of the anger left his voice. He found that he was actually surprised it had taken Sherlock this long to try and pull his military history. Still, he was hurt that Sherlock had gone behind his back, on top of still being angry over the drug use.

“One bloody day…” 

“You were gone.” Sherlock finally found his voice, though it was quiet, almost far away sounding. There was a hollowness to his words that went deeper than feeling woozy from drugs.

“I was  _ away _ .” John corrected, “and only a phone call away. You should have called.” 

“You decorated the flat… for Christmas,” Sherlock waved at the room around him, the movement causing him to fall off balance slightly, but he caught himself by placing a hand on the table. “Then just left.”

“Sherlock…” Despite himself, John felt a trickle of guilt rise up and take root in his gut. Seen from Sherlock’s point of view, however, altered by his drug use it might be, it did feel a  _ little _ like abandonment. He’d only just told Sherlock yesterday, hadn’t even asked if the Detective had plans, or if he had anyone (he knew Sherlock’s relationship with his brother was rocky at best) to spend the holiday with. Instead, he’d decorated, made the flat feel Christmassy, then left the day before.

“Alright…” Still a little annoyed that his (what was available, however little it might be) military file was scattered about their lounge  _ and _ at Sherlock’s relapse, John scrubbed a hand through his hair, and avoided pinching the bridge of his nose, instead he put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder in a way of support and began gently directing Sherlock through the lounge and down the hall. “Grab a shower, sober up. I’ll make some breakfast,” and on second thought, he added, “and coffee.” 

Sherlock said nothing as John practically walked him to the bathroom door. Once at the bathroom, he placed a hand on the door frame and indicated he was alright to stand on his own. Only when John removed his hand from his shoulder did Sherlock realize just how comforting the touch was. Though he went through life scoffing at couples, and PDA, living with John Watson made him realize that being touch starved was a real thing, and he was ravenous. He turned, leaning his back against the cool wooden door frame and watched as John left his side to rummage through the fridge. Sherlock honestly didn’t even know if there was food in the fridge. 

Still impaired from his drug use, Sherlock found himself wondering what it would be like to go to John, grab him by the shoulders and kiss him. He wondered if John would be shocked, if he would push away disgusted (though Sherlock had seen the looks John thought were so carefully hidden), or if John would melt into Sherlock’s arms. He nearly opened his mouth to tell John about his deep-seated feelings, to tell him to leave breakfast and come to bed with him. But something stopped him from spilling the beans, so to speak. Instead, he bit down on his tongue, pushed down the regret and stepped inside the bathroom. 

Sherlock didn’t shower. Instead, he stood at the sink, staring at first his reflection, then down at the hardly noticeable needle mark on his arm, then back to his reflection. How  _ could _ someone like John, with high morals and zero tolerance for drugs (or even shooting the wall out of boredom) love someone like him? 

After allowing himself roughly fifteen minutes of self-pity Sherlock washed his face with icy water then stepped through the opaque glass door leading into his bedroom where he swapped out his wrinkled blue dressing gown for his warmer maroon one. Once he felt slightly refreshed he went into the kitchen where John was nearly finished with a proper fry up. Sherlock spent a moment wondering where the food came from, then decided John must have gone shopping before he left. John looked over from where he was plating some eggs and nodded towards the kettle.

"Could you make coffee? Water should be hot." 

Even though Sherlock wanted nothing more than to curl up in a ball and sleep the next week away, he nodded and set about his task with slow clumsy fingers. Still, it felt good to be doing something. He was getting fidgety, and soon would be fighting the urge to pick at his cuticles as he rode off the last of the drugs.

They tucked into their breakfast, courtesy of Chef Watson, and just like when John had is incident, neither of them mentioned the drugs. However, John couldn't stop shooting worried glances over the table at Sherlock. After about fifteen minutes of this, Sherlock huffed and rolled up the sleeve of his dressing gown and thrust his arm over the table towards John.

"Go on, then." 

John was the piece of mine to pretend to not know what Sherlock was talking about for all of five seconds before he slipped from Chef back into Doctor. He grabbed at Sherlock's wrist, and for two full minutes staring at his watch as he checked his friend's pulse. Once satisfied, either that is pulse was normal, or less erratic than earlier, Sherlock wasn't entirely sure which, they went back to their breakfast.

By the time breakfast was over Sherlock was feeling more like himself, enough so when a trickle of guilt settled over him he found himself shocked. Guilt over his drug usage was new. Never before had he felt guilty over his recreational usage, not even the first time he’d woken up in some back alley drug den after an all-night bender to find his brother sitting beside him with a disappointed look on his face. No, this was new, and most likely John’s fault, though Sherlock couldn’t figure out how exactly he was going to blame something  _ he _ was feeling on John and make it stick. 

“Leave the dishes,” John broke the silence as his chair scraped across the rough wooden boards. “I’ll do them later.” 

Something in his voice made Sherlock look up from his plate where he’d been (unsuccessfully) trying to stab the last remaining bean with his fork. John held a hand out like a gentleman might to help a lady up out of a chair, and laughed a little. “Come on, it’s Christmas.” 

Sherlock took the hand and allowed John to pull him up out of the chair and into their lounge where they stopped just in front of the fireplace. John turned to the mantle, and from among the decorations picked out a gold-wrapped box, that Sherlock had (until now) thought just to be another ornament.    
  
“I got you something.” John held the pristinely wrapped box out to Sherlock who took it with a curious tilt of his head.

It was about the size of a pencil case, lightweight and wrapped in what appeared to be very expensive heavyweight gold foil wrapping paper. It had a glittery gold ribbon wrapped around it twice, creating the perfect present look. Sherlock hadn’t pegged John for being a perfectionist when it came to wrapping, but he now realized his flatmate most certainly had skill. 

Picking up the knife that so often was stabbed into the mantel when a solution to a problem eluded him, Sherlock was careful not to rip or tear the paper as he sliced through the tape holding the paper on. It took him roughly a minute, taking extra time as his hands were slightly shaking, but he managed it. He placed the paper down on the mantel and turned over the dark cherry wood box in his hand. The box itself was unremarkable, it was practical, merely a case for a gift, though to Sherlock it was beautiful. His family didn’t  _ do _ gifts, and he couldn’t remember the last time anyone had even thought to gift him something. 

The box slid open, much like a pencil case, and it revealed a soft foam inside. Snugly fit inside the foam was a small black collapsible magnifying glass, when collapsed it was roughly 4cm by 4cm. Sherlock carefully picked it up out of its case, then put the box on the mantel beside the paper. He slid the lens open, revealing the actual lense, and tested it by inspecting the holes in the mantle caused by his knife. 

“It’s…” he began but found his voice to be unreliable due to emotions he wasn’t quite ready to deal with.

“This way you can leave that old clunky thing behind…” John said he was referring to the full-size magnifying glass that Sherlock normally carried about him during cases. The kind you’d see in old black and white detective shows on American telly. One so big that the handle usually stuck outside his coat pocket.

"Thank you, John." Sherlock put the gift back in its box and looked up at his friend. "I… I didn't get you anything."

"It's fine, Sherlock. It's giving gifts I enjoy." John gave Sherlock a genuine smile and glanced at the box in his hands. "you're tricky to buy for…"

"It's perfect. Really." 

Sherlock wasted no time in swapping out the old magnifying glass for the new one then they both gravitated towards into their chairs as breakfast settled in their stomachs. Sherlock felt like he should ask John why exactly he was home, even though he knew. So to be polite (after all, wasn't John always reminding him to use his manners?) he asked.

"Was Harry drinking again?"

John sighed, and flicked the newspaper he was reading in half and placed it on his lap. The motion caused Sherlock to wonder if he'd asked the wrong question, was the act made out of annoyance or had John simply been done with that page. His mind still wasn't firing on all cylinders, which made it extra hard to read the already hard to read man in front of him. 

"I don't think there was a moment she was sober. She went to bed drunk and somehow woke up drunk. I swear she gets up in the middle of the night to nip a swig... Clara wants a divorce..."

"Rehab could help?" Sherlock suggested, leaving out the bit where no amount of rehab had helped him. It had been Lestrade, and his willingness to let Sherlock work that had helped him.

"She won't go, not willingly. Though it might be our only option. She might go... if Clara gives her an ultimatum." 

"Could court order it..." That had been how Mycroft had gotten Sherlock stuck in rehab the last time, it had been dreadful. The facility had been worse than going to prison. It only made him want to use more, to forget about the time spent there.

"No... not really." John shrugged. He'd thought about it, of course. But as an Omega, he had little legal power over an Alpha family member. Any act against Harry would be seen as an act of defiance, not of help. It would be up to Clara to order it. Unless John wanted to out himself in front of the general public, and Sherlock.

"Best to let them deal with it. For now," he added, hoping Sherlock would simply take it as John not wanting to meddle.  
  


"I feel a little badly that I didn't think to get you anything. For Christmas," Sherlock put in a while later. John looked back up from the paper, where he was on the last page, and shrugged. 

"There's one thing you can do for.... for me, for a gift." He started, but Sherlock cut him off with a seething look.

"I'm not promising not to use again. I don't make promises I cannot keep."

"No.. that's, no." John shook his head vehemently, "What I was going to say... Just, call me next time. Tell me. I might be able to help, or at least smack you out of it." John shrugged again and looked over the paper at him. "I mean, that's what friends are for, to be there when you need them most. You're not alone, Sherlock... I won't push you away or think ill of you simply because you have the urge to use.

"John..." Sherlock felt a small part of his heart caving. Before John had entered his life, he'd never had anyone he wanted to do well for. He'd never had the reason to be the best version (drug-free) of himself. Nor had he ever had anyone to be accountable towards. Mycroft, yes.. but his older brother didn't view his drug addiction as a struggle. Mycroft saw it as Sherlock purposely being rebellious, which it might have been at the start, but now it was something deeper. Now it was like knowing you had a mosquito bite and being told not to itch it, only to be reminded of just how itchy that one bite was and eventually caving. But here was John, not judging, not making him feel like less of a human being for his struggle. He was simply offering to be a helping hand.

"I can try... I can't promise anything."

That was enough for John, knowing that Sherlock knew someone cared enough to want to help him. That was the greatest gift Sherlock could have possibly given him, the actual acknowledgment of friendship. 

"Happy Christmas, Sherlock." John smiled then went back to the last page of the paper.

"Merry Christmas, John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was roughly 14 pages on google docs! it's amazing how much it condenses on AO3 and how tiny it looks lo!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> NOTE*** I know nothing of military life... so forgive me for innacuraceys
> 
> ALSO NOTE*** This week is GISH (Scavenger hunt created by Misha Collins) I probably won't have time to right the week, so I will be taking a week off!! See you in two weeks with an update!

This was the last thing John wanted right now. He was wet. His shoes were so wet he could probably wring them out into a puddle on the floor, and he had walked about 10 kilometers since breakfast. 

When he'd woken up that morning he hadn't planned on a trek through soggy Moores, or for a nights stay out in the countryside. Yet, as cases tended to cause, his day had been nothing but the unexpected. When dusk arrived, luckily, they'd stumbled across a lonely inn in a town comprised in the entirety of three streets and one single shop, John had to twist Sherlock’s arm to go inside out of the rain, let alone stay. So, when he found out the inn only had one room for rent, something about a local chap getting married and all the rooms were taken, John almost requested they simply head back.

The prospect of sharing a room, sleeping in the same bed, with the man he’d been hiding his status of Omega from, (and been harboring some wrong feelings for) scared him witless. Collared shirts were all well and good, except he’d look like a right fool for sleeping in one. He’d have to be creative, hiding his bond bite, while sharing a bed. It wasn’t that he was afraid of Sherlock finding out. However, it had been a secret he’d held close to his chest for so long now, that trying to explain to his new friend why he’d kept it hidden wasn’t on the top of his “to do” list.

Seemingly unaware of John’s trepidation, Sherlock slid the Innkeeper a credit card, John noticed it was under Mycroft’s name, and informed the man they’d take the room. 

“Does it have a private bath?” John asked, taking a second key from the burly man.

“Aye,” he winked, and John grimaced, imagining the man imagining him and Sherlock getting up to  _ things _ in said bath. 

“Thanks, erm, and dinner?”

“We’ve already served it, but if you gents would like, I can have the cook heat up some leftovers.”

“Ta.” 

The room was small, the single bed took up most of the space, there was a single wardrobe and a door that John assumed lead into the bath and a small (very small) table set off to one corner. He had no bags to unload, so he instead made a vague noise and indicated to the bathroom half asking if Sherlock needed it. Sherlock shook his head and John gratefully ducked into the bath. 

Slowly, John stripped off his wet clothes, draping his sopping wet sweater over the sink, his slightly less-wet button-up he hung on the hook on the back of the door. His undershirt, a white t-shirt, had somehow stayed nearly dry. His jeans were done for, soaked from the ankle to mid-thigh. They’d dry but would be stiff as a board.

He took a gloriously long shower, letting the hot water revitalize his chilled body. By the time he stepped out of the shower, a half-hour had passed, the bathroom mirror was steamed over, which was fine. It meant John didn’t have to see his gnarled shoulder and the bite that legally rendered him someone's property. He toweled off, stepped back into his somewhat damp pants, then put on his t-shirt. But then the mirror had cleared slightly, and he stared at himself, in disgust. How was he to hide his bite? A temporary solution came to him, it would at least work until he could crawl into bed and hide his shame under the blanket. He folded the towel he'd just used in half long ways then draped it around his neck. He did it at home sometimes. So it would be out of place. 

Dressed, and with a towel around his neck hiding the ugly, now nearly a scar bite John opened the bathroom door. A waft of steam followed him as he entered the small bedroom. If Sherlock thought the towel was odd, he said nothing. Instead, he grunted and said, "I hope you left some hot water."

Sherlock pushed himself up from the small table, where two bowls of stew were sitting. Apparently, someone had brought them up while John had been showering. Sherlock's bowl (like normal) was half-eaten. 

"They brought up dinner..." Sherlock said as he passed, waving an aloof hand towards the bowls.

"I can see that."

John took Sherlock's seat and swapped the half-eaten bowl out for the full one. The stew was lukewarm, no doubt warm once but cooled off due to the lengthiness of John's shower. Wanting to take advantage of being alone in the room John ate quickly. When he was done he claimed the side of the bed closest to the wall, so when he rolled to his side he'd be on the side of his bad shoulder, thus hiding the bite. He also claimed the spare pillow, using it as a sort of buffer between his side and Sherlock's, tucking the corner up under his chin, but over his shoulder, thus rendering the need of the towel useless. He also claimed the remote and put on a rerun of a late-night talk show. When Sherlock finally stepped out of the bathroom, he was wearing nothing but his (also damp) pants. The fabric did very little to hide Sherlock's Alpha-sized junk and it took all of John's willpower to keep his eyes on the telly, and not the view.

"You look comfy," Sherlock said, then pulled a strangled face that could have been because he'd just said the word comfy, or because of the, as he called it, crap telly. John wasn't sure which, but it made him smile.

“Certainly beats being up to my knees in muck,” John said, and despite the early hour had to stifle a yawn.   
  
“Yes, I should have seen this coming.” Sherlock scrunched up his face in a look of disgust. “I should have known by the mud and chunks of grass that the stalker was from here…”    
  
John tuned Sherlock out (as he usually did) while Sherlock went off on a fifteen-minute rant about plant life, and how only certain grasses grew here verses in London. He watched the talk show with mild interested but found himself growing more and more tired by the minute. By the time Sherlock stopped his rant, John’s eyelids were feeling heavy and he was no longer able to stop from yawning.

“Well, glad you have that sorted,” John said, fluffing the extra pillow and turning into it, one arm draped over it in sort of half hug. “Now if you don’t mind, hit the light.”

John was asleep before Sherlock had time to stop his pacing, turn the light out and take his half of the bed. The Alpha looked down at the doctor, realizing that this was the first time he'd seen the man asleep. Despite wanting to stay up and study first hand John's REM cycle, Sherlock too was tired from their day of walking over soggy ground. He wasn't sure his shoes would ever lose the smell of decaying leaves. 

But what could have been an interesting study into the sleep habits of a man plagued by nightmares never happened. Instead, Sherlock watched John sleep for fifteen minutes, making sleepy mental notes every time John's breathing changed or his eyes moved under their kids. Then Sherlock too was fast asleep, lulled by the soft steady breathing of his friend.

Sherlock woke some hours later to a sensation that was completely foreign to him. Something warm, something radiating heat, and something solid had attached itself to his side while he'd slept. Half asleep, his wits only half there, he tried to sit up but found that whatever was on top of him was covering enough of him to keep him from moving more than his head and his right hand. Neither of them had shut the telly off before succumbing to sleep, so by the time light, Sherlock was just able to make out what was on top of him. John had rolled over in his sleep, his back was no longer facing him. Blinking hard, trying to see through the sleep, Sherlock saw John laying on his right side, curled up on Sherlock's chest, sleeping as if the dead had called to him. John had his left arm thrown over Sherlock's chest, his fingers where warm and Sherlock's bare skin beneath them was beginning to sweat, John even had a leg hooked up over one of Sherlock's. 

Sherlock had never been touched like this before. He'd never been cuddled. Not even as a child when he'd had a bad dream. Sherlock's anatomy, unbidden but not entirely unwelcome, tweaked in interest. He allowed himself to believe, for one single moment that John Watson liked men, and that he didn't care that he was an Alpha. That John wanted him.

The daydream was cut short though when the TV screen, as an advert flashed by, brightened the screen and illuminated John. At first, Sherlock was struck with how peaceful John looked. He let his eyes sleepily soak in John's presence until his eyes landed on the left side of John's shoulder. There, the light of the TV exposed a bite mark, and not just a simple bond bite. The bite was gruesome, savage, feral. 

As carefully as he could Sherlock used his free arm, his right hand, to reach out and pat the top of the nightstand beside the bed. After a moment of fishing, he found it and unlocked it. Careful to shield the light from John's eyes, lest he wake him, Sherlock shone the light from the phone's torch on John's neck. Instantly he wished he hadn't. If it had looked bad under the dim light of a small television, it looked ten times worse under the harsh LED light.

John's bond bite, if it could even be called that took up nearly 70% of the skin he'd kept so cleverly hidden under his collared shirts and extended down towards his collarbone and over towards his shoulder. Under the brighter light of his phone, Sherlock was able to see just how deep those bite marks had been, how they had not simply bitten, but torn flesh out. Sherlock's stomach turned and he had to close his eyes for a moment, willing away the feeling to sick up. Whatever John had gone through, clearly it had been unwelcome, unwanted, borderline rape. Sherlock's mind went where it shouldn't, he tried to picture the scenario, tried to picture what John went through, but that only made the churning in his stomach worse. On a hunch, Sherlock lifted up the collar of John's white t-shirt and again wished he hadn't. The bite marks and tearing continued, and got worse as they traveled along the length of John's shoulder. 

Shaking and breathing hard Sherlock dismissed the light on his phone and let the device clatter to the floor. Just like that, the mystery that had been John Watson was (mostly) solved. He now knew that John was an Omega, that he was bonded and clearly separated from his Alpha. There was a lack of scent that separated John from most people. As a bonded Omega, on John's Alpha could smell him, smell his true self. It also explained why, at times, John was extra moody if not more prone to angry outbursts. While he wouldn't have a true heat separated from his Alpha, his biology would still run according to his natural cycle.

Sherlock had always assumed John had been shot while serving their Queen and Country. He'd asked John, and now playing back the conversation he realized John had never confirmed the type of wound. Just that yes, he'd been wounded but not how. Never, even when considering what he thought to be all possibilities had Sherlock thought of this scenario.

Laying there, with his apparently Omega flatmate (and friend) sprawled across him Sherlock was torn. He wanted to tear out of bed, gather up his phone and wake his pompous ass of a brother up, demanding access to John's files. He knew, somehow, that even confronted John would never tell him. It wasn't a matter of trust, it was a matter of what Sherlock would have to do legally. As an Alpha, Sherlock would be required by law to "reunite" the Omega with his Alpha. He'd die before he'd allow anyone who could be so vicious towards his friend near John again. 

He'd nearly made up his mind, was trying to figure out how to get out of bed without waking John, when John said something that made him freeze. 

"Mmm.." John muttered, fast asleep and deep in a dream, judging by the rapid movement of his eyes, "Sherlock...." 

It was said so softly, so fervently, so.... lovingly, that Sherlock clamped his hand over his mouth to hold back a sob.

There was nothing to it at that point, damn the consequences, Sherlock wrapped his free arm around John and tugged him close. He buried his face in John's neck, nuzzled against the awful bites, kissed the bond bite once, then wept. He decided at that moment, that he would not rest until the man (or woman) who had done this to John was dead. Mycroft  _ would _ give him full access to John's military files, and he  _ would _ rectify the problem. Not that being bonded was a problem, but having a bond forced on you by an arsehole,  _ that _ was a problem.

Sherlock did not, could not, fall back to sleep after that. He wept silent tears until he had no tears left, leaving his face feeling dry and itchy from the salt. Though he wanted to wake John, to demand answers, to fix everything, he made every effort not to wake his friend. Instead, he cradled John close, holding him while the ex-soldier slept soundly while cuddled in close. 

When John first began showing signs of waking, telltale changes in his breathing and soft twitches as his body also began to wake, Sherlock regretfully unwrapped his arms from around John. For now, it would be best if John didn't know they'd spent the night wrapped up together. Sherlock also took measures to make it appear that he too had been deep in sleep. He slowed his breathing and turned his face away from John, resting it on a cool pillow, a stark difference from John's body heat. He also mentally prepared himself for John's reaction when John woke to discover how he'd slept. He prepared himself for anger, perhaps a bit of shock on John's part. He was not, however, prepared for what happened. 

Half asleep, John lifted his head, leaving Sherlock's shoulder cold in comparison, and smacked his lips together. Sherlock could smell his sour morning breath, but if that was the price to pay for having the man of your dreams wrapped around you all night, he'd happily pay it. A soft "oh" escaped from John's lips as he realized he was sprawled over Sherlock. But instead of pulling away, as Sherlock had expected, he let out a sad little whine then, assuming Sherlock to be asleep settled his head back down and allowed himself a moment like that.

Sherlock had to fight the urge to show his hand, to show John he was awake, to wrap his arms around John and kiss his neck, showing John what love could be like. Instead, he simply lay there, but he was not idle. No, he committed each sensation, the way John's fingers gently stroked his chest, how John's breath felt against his neck, everything was committed to memory. He soon had a whole wing of his memory filled with the night's experience. 

They must have lain like that for five minutes before John let out a soft regretful sigh and carefully extracted himself from Sherlock's presence. Sherlock wished his eyes had been open so he could see the way John looked, he could imagine the ruffled hair, the sleep lines on his face, the bite... As it stood, he could glean very little information with his eyes closed. Yes, he could hear the soft padding of bare feet against the wooden floorboard, and the bathroom door click shut behind John, but he would have given anything to see John's expression. 

With the bed to himself, Sherlock rolled over and put a hand in his hair. He needed to think, he needed to come up with a plan. He'd spent the whole night worrying about John and this new information he'd learned. So much so that he hadn't given the case, the very reason they'd been required to share a bed, a second thought.

He was sitting up in bed, reading over the notes John had written down on his notepad when John came out of the bathroom fully dressed. John gave Sherlock a bemused smile.

"The Great Sherlock Holmes, reading my notes?" 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, hoping to seem indifferent to the jab when really he wanted to stand up and pull John into a tight hug. John had, unbeknownst to him (probably) written down something Sherlock hadn't noticed.

"Yes well, you solved the case, could have told me that yesterday. We could be home eating Mrs. Hudson's famous fry-up." 

"I what?" John's jaw dropped slightly then he looked affronted. "Don't poke fun." 

"I'm not, you noted here," Sherlock pointed to a line in the notebook, "that the jacket left behind was covered in horsehair. We passed a stable yesterday afternoon, a quick online search shows it's the only one for miles. We can eat then I'll see what this town has in way of cabs." 

"Right, I'll go ask the innkeeper for some breakfast then." John, chuffed, puffed up a little. There was no wonder Sherlock had never once consider him as an Omega. He was so confident, so proud, so... manly.

The moment John left the room Sherlock scrambled to the side of the bed and scooped up his mobile from the floor. He cursed when he saw the battery percentage low, but it would be enough for his needs. He could use the room's phone to call for a cab. 

He swiped through his contacts, he'd never bothered to memorize Mycroft's number and pressed call. His brother answered in two rings. 

"I need FULL access to John's file. NOW." Sherlock growled into the receiving end of his phone.

"Haven't we been through his before?" Mycroft sounded bored, Sherlock wished (not for the first time) that he could shove a hand through his phone and smack some life into his brother. 

"Yes, but that was before I knew he was an Omega." Sherlock let that sink in, but only for a moment, "I need full access, I need to know who it is, and how to dispose of him, or her. I need to know what happened."

"What are you on about, brother mine?" The boredom was gone, though Mycroft was making every effort to hide it.

"His neck, Mycroft, is torn to shreds. He wasn't shot, he was attacked."

"You are... up north, yes?"

"Currently." 

"Solve your little puzzle, then come see me at my office. We will discuss." 

The phone clicked off, but even though Sherlock had effectively been hung up on, he was elated. He hadn't even had to thread to use other means to get John's file, namely, using Mycroft's password to hack into his own system.

***

Despite knowing it would take 3.75 hours longer than if he'd solved the case, Sherlock allowed John to put the bits together and solve it "on his own."

They'd been hired by a young lady who'd taken a job Nannyinng a pair of small children in the country. She went home every weekend to see her boyfriend and family, the trip from the train station to her week time residence wasn't long, and she enjoyed walking or cycling, rather than putting her employer out by asking for a ride. She'd come to them after three weeks of being followed. Why she hadn't gone to her employer a widower in his early 30's, was beyond Sherlock. That could have cleared the whole case up before it even started.

Her employer, as it turned out, would follow behind her on his horse, to ensure she arrived safely. There was no ill intent, the man was simply terribly shy to the point where Sherlock felt the need to point out that therapy might not be a terrible idea for him to consider.

It was exhilarating to watch John work, and worth the (nearly) four hours to see the look on John's face when the right questions had been asked and everything had been pieced together.

John’s elated mood remained high and jovial throughout their entire train ride back to London. Even a cab ride in a car the smelled as if it had spent most of its working life on a fishing boat didn’t damper his mood. He was still high on adrenaline when the cab stopped at 221B and they stepped out onto the pavement.

He was practically bouncing on the balls of his feet while Sherlock fished the keys out of his pocket. His face was decorated with a lopsided smile and his eyes flashed with pride. The energy crackled between them, turning from case-adrenaline-high to tension, sexual tension. The sexual tension had always been there, they’d both knowing it. But now their bodies (though John didn’t know Sherlock knew) knew what it felt like to be in each other's arms. Sherlock inhaled, wishing he could smell John, something he’d never wished for so hard until now.

As Sherlock fit the key in the lock, John placed a hand on his arm. Sherlock wasn’t sure why John did it, but it sent a shock up his extremity and he exhaled sharply. He was leaning down and pressing a chaste kiss to John’s lips before he had time to realize what he’d done. It was Sherlock’s first kiss, and while it certainly wasn’t a five star, write home to the parents kiss, it made his heart race. And it made John smile for a split second, with his eyes closed, he looked like he had during the night as he slept on top of him.

Sherlock backed away and looked away before the inevitable look of shock crossed John’s face. He turned the key int the lock, Mrs. Hudson must be out if the door was locked, and hurried up the stairs.

John stepped inside after Sherlock, shutting the door to the outside world behind him. The hallway was dim in comparison. He stood at the foot of the stairs, shock and wonder rendering his limbs unusable at the moment. As Sherlock disappeared around the landing he brought two fingers up to his lips, feeling where Sherlock’s lips had just been. As far as kisses went, the kiss had been pretty bad, but it had been  _ Sherlock _ who’d kissed him.

He hurried up the stairs after Sherlock and caught the detective just as he was about to shut his bedroom door behind him.

“Sherlock,” John said, in a way of stopping him. It worked, and for a moment they just stood there standing awkwardly not saying anything. John stood between the kitchen and their bathroom, he balled his hands into fists at his sides and squeezed. Then squaring his shoulder he made up his mind. If he were ever to kiss Sherlock Holmes, it would be  _ now _ .

He surged forward and grabbed Sherlock by both shoulders. He had to stand on tiptoes as this time Sherlock was too shocked to bend down and meet him. He parted his mouth, swiped his tongue over Sherlock’s perfect cupids bow, he moaned into Sherlock’s mouth as he tugged on his bottom lip. And then it was over, he stepped back and screwed a sheepish smile onto his face.

“That first kiss was kind of weak, that was… well… data, for you. So you know what it’s like.”

“John…” Sherlock tried to speak but his voice cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again. He wanted John, oh how he wanted John, but not yet, not like this. “I wasn’t… I didn’t mean..”

“It’s fine, Sherlock. Really. It’s not like I’m on the market, exactly.” His left hand rubbed absently at his shoulder and Sherlock knew that John was thinking about his bond.

Sherlock said nothing for a moment, then, giving John a graceful way out of the situation motioned towards his wardrobe on the other side of his room. 

“I was just going to change.” He offered John a smile, one that he hoped portrayed his reassurance that the kiss, or whatever it had been was both appreciated and fine. 

“Right, yes.” John nodded, a bit too enthusiastically, and stepped back a pace, putting space between them. He took in Sherlock’s rumpled, two-day-worn suit and wondered how only Sherlock could make the grungy suit look, well, ravishing. “I should do the same.” He gestured to his trouser legs, which were covered in mud from their trek. 

John turned, as Sherlock shut his bedroom door, and slowly inhaled. He filled his lungs with air until his chest felt like it might split open, held the breath until he’d entered the lounge, then finally exhaled. Just like that, the kiss, that wonderful, toe-curling kiss, would become the third thing that they didn’t talk about. His chest still ached, though this time it was for an entirely different reason. He told himself it was for the best. If he were to entangle himself with Sherlock, it would raise questions. Questions John wasn’t sure he had the strength to answer.

***

When John came down a short time later, dressed in a fresh outfit and feeling marginally more human Sherlock was standing by the door in their lounge putting his coat on.

“Going somewhere? Do we have another case?” While he’d certainly enjoyed solving the last case, John had hoped for a day off to give his aching legs a break, so when Sherlock shook his head he relaxed a bit.

“Got a call from Mycroft,” it was a lie and Sherlock had to bite back the urge to flinch, instead he scowled. Scowls always accompanied a sentence in which is bother was mentioned, “He needs my help,”  _ I need his help. _ “He asked me to meet him at his office. Might be out late, don’t wait on me for dinner.” 

“Ah well, you have fun with that then.” John sat on the edge of the sofa and watched as Sherlock pulled his gloves on. The detective arched an eyebrow and looked at John skeptically.

“Fun, where my bother is involved.”

“Leave a toad on his chair.” John shrugged, and Sherlock, despite feeling like the absolute scum of the earth for lying to John actually chuckled. On that note, he again reminded John not to wait up for him, then dashed off down the stairs before his guilt caused him to say something incriminating. 

He oscillated on the pavement below, guilt bubbling up like some witches potion boiling over a cauldron. He nearly gave up, nearly turned back to the flat, to dash up the stairs and tell John he knew, that he wanted to know everything. But just as he turned, back to the street, the sound of a car coming to a halt behind him gave him pause. He turned to see Mycroft’s black town car. Gathering his resolve he bit back a curse and hopped in.

***

“Are you quite sure?” Mycroft extended a thick file folder over the desk towards his brother, holding it just out of reach while he waited for an answer.

“How bad?” Sherlock suppressed the desire to childishly snatch the file out of his brother's hand and tear through it then and there. 

“I haven’t read it myself,” Mycroft began and a shadow passed over his face before he schooled his emotions, “but I was given the highlights. The implications made aren’t pretty. But,” he passed the folder over and stuck his fingers in his coat pocket, “I did learn that your John Watson is the Omega that changed the way Omegas are treated in the military. He caused quite the ruckus when he enlisted. Quite a bright young doctor at the time, so the powers at be wanted him for themselves. I signed off on that little bill of his.”

“Bill?” 

“Yes, apparently he refused to make his final signature to join the Army if they didn’t provide a form for Omega’s to chose what happened to them should they have a bond forced on them while serving.”   
  
Sherlock smiled, picturing a mildly younger, but still as stubborn John bending the will of the government. He was quite the man already, and this just made him love him more. Sherlock blinked, and reconsidered… He guessed, if he were truly being honest, that yes, he did actually love John Watson. Perhaps that’s why he was feeling so guilty for going off behind his back.

“I’ll be in meetings most of the day. My office is at your disposal.” Mycroft waved to the chair on the other side of his desk and Sherlock nodded his thanks. Mycroft hadn’t even gotten his jacket on by the time Sherlock had the file open and spread out over the desk. He didn’t sit, he stood hunched over the papers, arrange them into some semblance of order. He put the pages he’d already seen (Though these copies were not redacted) in one stack, then pictures in a second stack, the third held pages he hadn’t yet seen. Pages that had been withheld from his first attempt to snoop. He didn’t know what strings Mycroft had pulled to get these, but Sherlock was now in his brother’s debt. 

“Read, process, plan. I’ll be back later and we can discuss the best course of action. I assume you’ll want the Alpha in question eliminated.”    
  
“If he won't give up the bond, yes.” Sherlock felt nothing as he admitted his desire to take another man’s life. 

Mycroft simply nodded. This wasn’t his first rodeo, or whatever the saying was.

There wasn’t much new on the pages Sherlock had already seen. Information was given on where John was stationed, what his job was, and his name, rank, serial number, and gender. Nothing unexpected there, now that Sherlock knew. There were a few new pictures. John in his fatigues, John in scrubs, and one of John sitting smiling up at the camera with his arms around two fellow soldiers. He was wearing cameo trousers and a tan t-shirt. His arms with muscular and his skin was tan, his neck was free of bites and he looked, well he looked sexy. He looked like one of those men who knew he was okay looking but didn’t know  _ just how fucking hot _ he really was. It was his smile, a wide ear to ear smile that Sherlock had so rarely seen that really drew Sherlock’s attention. John had smiled like that right after they’d kissed. 

He flicked through a few more pages, pages listing John’s highly impressive career within the military. He’d been a top surgeon before joining, specializing in trauma victims. He was good under pressure, which Sherlock already knew, and could handle a scalpel even under extreme situations. 

Then he came across a single page, typed on a typewriter. It was brief and hardly to the point. 

Subject: Captain Watson, Jonathan H.    
Date: 02/11/2004

Time: 1300

At 1300 Watson was assisting fellow field medics in a rescue mission searching a nearby bombing sight for survivors. He was lead surgeon on the field that day. Witnesses corroborate his report that while attending a wounded he was attacked, bitten and maimed by a rogue Alpha later identified as Khaili Badri Maloof. Watson was pulled away from the Alpha by allies and put in a holding cell until his heat subsided, in which case he was brought to the infirmary where we were paired severe tissue and bone damage to his left shoulder and collarbone. We recommend his immediate discharge as he can no longer fulfill his role. 

It was signed off by a few people, Sherlock didn’t bother to read their names. Rage boiled over and he balled his fist and slammed it down on the hard wooden surface of the desk. That was it, that was all they had to say on the matter. There was no mention of how vicious the attack had been, outside of a dull medical standpoint, there was no mention of how the attack has drastically altered John’s life, let alone any career he’d wish to have in the future. And there was no mention whatsoever of how traumatic that heat must have been for him, with a wounded shoulder to boot. By the sounds of it they hadn’t event attended to his medical needs until his heat was over, which was ludicrous. There were drugs available, readily available, that would chemically end a heat. They could have helped him. It was some small wonder that John had any movement left in that shoulder. John was left-handed, Sherlock could only imagine how badly he'd exerted himself during his heat. 

The rest of the papers were mainly John’s discharge papers, there was one that mentioned his pension and Sherlock’s anger grew at the small amount they’d offered John. John’s military file complete, Sherlock thought he was done, but when he flipped the last page there was an envelope resting between it and the back of the folder. Written on it in Mycroft’s secretary handwriting was, “This is everything we know about Maloof.-A”

Sherlock tore open the envelope and let it flutter to the floor as he laid the contents out on top of the papers already strewn about Mycroft’s desk. There was a picture of the man, a mug shot of sorts taken most likely by the military. He had sun-dark skin, black hair mostly hidden by a turban (which was half falling off his head). His sharp Alpha incisors were descended and his teeth and chin were covered in blood. He looked like he were on his way dressed as a vampire to some fancy dress party. Sherlock had to look away, had to suck in a breath when he realized that was John’s blood in the man’s teeth, John’s blood dripping down his chin. He flipped the picture over so he wouldn’t have to look at it then turned his attention to the paper that had been inside the envelope.

The information listed on the paper was sparse. Last known address, last known work address, there was even a list of Omega’s this man had bonded/slept with. Apparently, he was well known by the local pimps. Which meant it wouldn’t be hard for Sherlock to track him down. He pulled up the map on his phone and began to cross-reference his last known address and work address with the locations he seemed to visit when the  _ need arised. _ They were all within a 5km radius. This was starting to seem like taking candy from a baby. He was just starting to draw up a plan when the office door opened and his brother came in carrying a takeaway bag.

“You look haggard, Brother.” Mycroft unbuttoned his waistcoat and reached into the bag, handing Sherlock a sandwich from it then went around his desk to sit. He glanced at his desk and quirked an eyebrow, “and I see you’ve made yourself quite at home.”

“I nearly have it…” Sherlock ran a hand through his hair, further messing his curls. “Though I’m afraid he won't agree to sign off on the paperwork John would need to chemically remove the bond.”

“So what do you propose to do? Kill him?”

“It wouldn’t be my worst idea... “ Sherlock gestured to a notepad where he’d written down the names of Omegas bonded by him. “Found these in the registry, might have used your password.” He had the grace to look sheepish for half a second then continued, “He’s a serial attacker, he’ll attack anything that has a secondary gender, bite and rape… He’s bonded over fifteen Omegas in the last six years.”

Sherlock hated this man. What he was doing was an abomination. Alphas  _ could _ take on second or third partners while an Omega could only be bonded to one Alpha. It was unheard of now but had been a popular practice by certain cultures in the 18th century. It had also been used by rich white men on their female slaves. It made Sherlock’s skin crawl. 

“John… had an episode, not too long ago. We were sitting just spending a quiet moment, then all of a sudden he was on the floor crying out and writing in pain. Mycroft, that must have been when he bonded his last Omega. He won't stop, which means John will have to ensure that again.” 

“I’m not letting my brother become a killer.” There was no heat in Mycroft’s voice, but nor was there room to budge. Mycroft meant what he was saying. “However… if it is best to take this man out. My men will do it.”

“Give me the paperwork and let me ask him first,” Sherlock asked, referring to the process where much like chemo could get rid of cancer they could now get rid of a bond if the Alpha signed off on it.

“And if he doesn’t agree?” Mycroft asked again.

“Then you can do what you wish with him.”

“Give me 72 hours, I’ll get a team together, send a man in to assess the danger. Sherlock,” he added, his tone growing tight, “Do you know what it does to an Omega if his, or her’s, Alpha dies?”

“Very little, they didn’t exactly cover that in health class.”

“It rarely ends well for the Omega. Their mind shuts down as their body literally re-writes itself. I suggest you look into it, over the next few days. It will be a very trying time for John.”

Sherlock nodded, he hadn't yet thought of John’s biological response. 

“I will.”   


He did, he spent the next day on online forums reading Omega’s stories of when their bondmate died, of what they went through. One woman had been shopping when her Alpha was hit by a car. She’d gone into shock right there in the store and was found by some poor clerk in a ball on the floor. Blood had begun to seep out of her bond bite as her body began rejecting her Alpha’s bond. It wasn’t pretty. Sherlock pulled out his phone and sent a text to his brother.

_ A slight deviation in plans. -S _

_ I will talk with Maloof, request he civilly sign the paperwork. -S _

_ And if he doesn’t? _

_ It would be a shame if something were to happen to him. I just hope I’m in London should it happen. -S _

Sherlock returned to the online forum, reading story after story of unexpected deaths and how Omega’s handled it. There was no sure method, each Omega on the forum seemed to have gotten over their loss in different ways. One took up sewing, another opened a sweet shop, and a third started writing online fanfiction for Lord Of The Rings. He tried to put pieces together, to try to find a common denominator between the stories but could find nothing other than the age-old trick of staying busy. He was so lost in his work he didn’t hear John arrive home from work until his friend spoke.

“What are you reading? Must be interesting.” 

“What? Nothing,” Sherlock quickly closed the tab on his browser and with a few short keystrokes cleared the history. 

“Clearly it’s something.” John chided, his lips quirking into a smile, “I haven’t seen you jump that high since the last time your brother surprised us with a visit.”

“Just… a bit of research, for a case I might take. Mycroft has me looking into it.” Sherlock avoided meeting John’s gaze. It wasn’t a straight-up lie, but it wasn’t the complete truth either.

“Well, let me know if you need help.” John offered then dropped his coat over the back of his chair and walked into the kitchen, his voice growing in volume as he walked further away, “I thought I might cook tonight. Care for risotto.”

“Must have been a boring case today. What was it, another elderly?” John hardly cooked after being called to a murder scene. Today’s call must have been a peaceful death.

“Not exactly.” There was a clatter from the kitchen as John got a pan. “Car accident, young kid, instant death. Neck snapped.”

Sherlock’s mind instantly wandered to the Omega who’s Alpha died after being hit by a car. John must have chosen that moment to peek around the corner, as he so often did while cooking. He let out a shocked “Oh.” and was beside Sherlock in seconds.

“Are you alright? Getting sick? You’re a bit pale.” John’s hand pressed against Sherlock’s forehead before Sherlock could stop it.

“No, fine. I’m just having second thoughts about the matter with Mycroft. 

“Ah. Can’t help you there.” John stepped back but considered Sherlock for a long moment. “Will it be worth it? Helping Mycroft, that is.”

“It’s a worthy cause, yes. It just might hurt a few people along the way.” Sherlock shut his laptop and stood up. “Nevermind that now, can I help with dinner?”

“Are you sure you’re alright, you never offer to help with dinner.” 

“I do, sometimes.”

“Last time you offered to help, you went out for takeaway and came back six hours later covered in spiderwebs.” John reminisced, laughing as he walked back into the kitchen. 

“I can’t help it if a case finds me, John. You know that.”

“It was a lost cat, you just refuse to admit you’re a sap.”

“But she was ten and crying. Her cat was stuck under an old building.”

“Sap.” John laughed again and handed Sherlock a towel. “I’ve got to clean these dishes before I cook. You dry. Leave the pan and the big spoon on the table. I’ll need those.” 

Sherlock dried, and put the dishes away, wondering if things would still be like this between them if he went through with it. Would their banter end, would their friendship suffer. Would John be able to forgive him, or even accept what he was about to do? He pushed the bubble of fear down and simply decided to enjoy the evening while he could. Just in case. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I will be away working Boston Comic Con this coming weekend. I will do my best to post the next chapter as soon as I've recovered from a very very long weekend. (Aka = next chapter will probably be late)

“John…” Sherlock sat on the edge of John’s bed, one hand on his leg hoping the weight would wake him. “John,” he said again, a little louder this time.

“Sherlock?” John cracked an eye open and stifled a yawn, “What time is it?”

“Late, or early, I’m not sure. I just wanted to let you know, Mycroft called. He’s ready for me. I’ll be gone for a few days.”

“Is it dangerous?” John opened both eyes and shifted under Sherlock’s hand.

“Possibly.” Sherlock didn't see the need to add to the pile of lies he’d told John over the last few days. “I won't be alone, I’ll be with a few hand-picked minions of Mycroft’s.” 

"Minions," despite the early hour and his sleepiness, John found that funny. He chuckled into his pillow and closed his tired eyes. "Be safe. remember to eat at least once every few days, and stay hydrated. I won't be there to place a cup of tea and a biscuit in front of you."

"Yes, Doctor." Sherlock returned the chuckle and stood up. John's eyes were still closed so he missed the way Sherlock's facial expression changed from one of fondness to sharp angles pinched with worry. 

"Text me when you can," John yawned and rolled over, snuggling into his pillow. John must have been too tired to notice or care because the new position gave Sherlock his second view of the purplish bite at the base of his neck. Seeing the bite gave Sherlock a sense of determination, it quelled the doubts circulating in his mind. He WAS doing the right thing, mostly. Someone had to see of Maloof would give up legal rights over John, or at least sign the chemical treatment paperwork and John certainly couldn't do it himself. If he got within a kilometer of the Alpha his biology would kick into overdrive and he would, most likely, endure a severe heat.

"I will, I'll text you when I land safely, and again when I head home." Sherlock wished he could do more, wished he could tell John that everything would be alright. So much was still uncertain, however, and the worry that John wouldn't be alright should the Alpha come to his untimely end settled like sour food in his stomach. Sherlock stood beside John's bed for a long moment, for as long as he dared (Mycroft was waiting outside) and watched as John slipped back into sleep. 

Back downstairs in their lounge, he picked up his travel back which was mainly change of clothes, his toothbrush, and phone charger then headed out to where his brother waited. 

"I thought you had changed your mind," Mycroft said in way of telling Sherlock he was late.

"No, I haven't changed my mind," Sherlock sat down beside his brother and rolled his eyes, "I was informing John that I would be away for a few days. So he wouldn't worry."

"How kind of you." Mycroft handed Sherlock a folder the sun was still below the horizon so he had to use the light on his phone to read the contents.

"You have 38 hours. Get in, speak with him, get him to agree. Or not," Mycroft added offhandedly, "and get out. My men will Be on hand to take care of the situation if he refuses."

A thought suddenly struck Sherlock and he chided himself on being so hasty. "And his other Omegas, if he refuses?" 

"We have eyes on 93% of them, John included, and have a team in place to handle any situations that might arise." 

"You do?" Sherlock flicked off the light on his phone and looked over to his brother in mild shock.

"Yes, I do, Sherlock. Haven't you wondered, why I'm helping? Why I'm bothering to aid your little rescue mission?" 

Sherlock shook his head, he hadn't actually wondered. He just assumed he'd owe his brother a favor after this, like in the past. Their silent arrangement. I help you, you help me, we then stay out of each other's hair.

Mycroft sighed and, with slow movements brought the index finger of his left hand to his collar and pulled the fabric of his expensive suit down. The light of the moon and sparse street lights were just enough for Sherlock to make out an old silvery scar from a bite made many years prior. He leaned back against the door, gaping at his brother until Mycroft rolled his eyes ad said, "Close your jaw, you look like a child who's just seen Father Christmas."

"The person responsible for this is contained, you needn't go on a heroic rampage on my behalf after this." Mycroft lowered his hand and gave his brother a half-smile. "You never wondered why I disappeared when I was a teen, why you didn't hear from me for months?" 

"Mummy said you were at Uni and busy studying." 

"A lie used to hide the fact I'd been bitten while taking my entrance exams for Uni." Mycroft sighed and turned to look out the window for a moment, "Granted, it eventually became the truth." Mycroft grimaced and Sherlock felt the shift in their relationship, he felt it shift minutely in the direction of the relationship they shared as children, towards brotherhood. 

"It is in the past, brother mine. However I sense you wish to talk about it, but there isn't time. Not now." 

Mycroft was correct, the driver took a turn and Heathrow came into sight, brilliantly lit up against the pre-dawn light. 

"Suffice it to know just this, for now. I vowed then, that if I could prevent another person from going through what I went through, I would. John was unfortunate enough to attract the interest of Maloof... but his body is still his, in that aspect he was much more fortunate than I."

"Mycroft... I..." Sherlock began but was cut short by a wave of Mycroft's hand after he adjusted his collar. 

"What's done is done, Sherlock. You and I will have time to discuss this matter further, once you are back. Until then, you have a plane to catch. Your tickets are inside the folder. I'm sorry I couldn't arrange a private jet, but if we're to do this under the radar, I don't want your visit to coincide with my men's." 

"I understand."

There was no need for pleasantries. When the car came to a stop just outside the terminal Sherlock gave his brother a simple nod before exiting the car. He spent the flight mulling over what Mycroft had confessed to him. He'd always assumed his brother was an Alpha. He acted like an Alpha, had a position that was riddled with Alpha pheromones. But, he'd thought that of John, or at least he had thought John a beta. 

"Some detective I am." He muttered, making the elderly lady sitting beside him look over out of curiosity. He gave her a smile then turned to face the window.

Sherlock tried to close his eyes, tried to catch up on sleep lost from the before dawn flight. He gave up after the lady next to him woke him up by asking very loudly for a tea. So he spent the rest of the flight re-examining the folder Mycroft had given him. When he had the entire folder, down to wrinkles in the pages memorized he flicked the folder shut and stared back out the window. He let his mind wander, he reflected on his conversation with Mycroft and how in the span of one sentence everything he thought he knew about his brother was turned upside down. He allowed himself a solid twenty minutes to reconsider this harebrained plan. He knew he wouldn't change his mind, but it calmed him slightly, knowing he cared enough about John to wonder if he truly was doing the right thing. He knew that, once John recovered should it come to the death of his Alpha, they would have words. John would, of course, bring up valid points that Sherlock had not considered. This was, he assured himself, the best plan of action. Best to do it now, before Maloof got it in his head to come looking for John. 

***

Sherlock stepped out of the Kandahar International Airport and grimaced, unaccustomed to the stifling heat. Wondering how the hell John had tolerated this weather he paused just outside and glanced up at the sun, squinting and cursing his dark suit. He'd have to find a place to get a change of clothes suitable for this heat. As planned, by apparently his Omega brother, a black car was waiting just outside. It wasn't hard to spot, it was the only car not covered in dust and dents.

He stepped up to the side of the car, heard the locks unlatch, and opened the back door. He slid in and uttered a pleased sigh as cool air from the air conditioning unit inside the car hit his face. He'd been outside less than five minutes and already his suit jacket was sticking to him. A thin man with bleach blond hair, so blond it was nearly white, handed Sherlock a duffel bag as Sherlock sat down.

"Your brother sends his regards, said you might need these."

Inside the bag was a pair of linen trousers and a soft purple linen shirt. Sherlock smiled and silently thanked his brother. He fingered his mobile, wanting to call John and let him know he landed safely, but the street noise gave him pause. John spent years not far from here, he would certainly recognize the sounds of a Kandahar street. No, he would wait until he got to whatever safe house Mycroft had set up for him. John had said to text him, but something inside Sherlock needed to call, needed to hear his voice.

The safe house, it turned out, was a dingy motel room about a half hours ride from the last known home address for Maloof. The room was hot, musty, and clearly unaccustomed to use if the spider web in the shower was any indication. But it was quiet, so he sat down on the edge of the bed (a bed he had no intention of using) unbuttoned his suit jacket, and brought up John's number. He hovered his finger over the call option on his screen for a few odd seconds before tapping the screen and putting the phone to his ears. He stared at the folder, which lay on the bed beside him. The release forms needed for Chemical treatment on top and sucked on his bottom lip until John answered. 

_ "You're calling me, on your phone, not texting. Is everything alright?"  _ John's voice carried a level of concern that Sherlock was unaccustomed to having directed at him.

_ "Yes, fine, I just had a moment to myself. Thought I would call."  _

_ "Oh."  _

There was a pause then John asked, _ "good flight?" _

_ "Terrible, the lady beside me was a nightmare. I saw the flight attendant spit into her drink when she wasn't looking." _

John laughed, which was fantastic to hear. Funny how something like another person's laughter could affect your mood even separated by countries. 

_ "I hope you didn't share with her." _

_ "Disgusting." _ Sherlock chuckled, which made John laugh again. _ "I'll be a few days here. Can't tell you where or Mycroft would have my head." _

_ "Right." _ John sobered up and Sherlock didn't even have to close his eyes to see the way John's jaw was set, tight, strained, clenched. 

_ "Don't let Lestrade muddle any cases while I'm gone." _

_ "I'll do my best. Just, take care of yourself, yeah?" _

_ "I always do," _ Sherlock said lightly and practically heard John roll his eyes.

_ "Right, of course."  _

_ "I'll stay in touch,"  _ Sherlock said and hung up before he said something stupid, like asking him what he would do if his bond had been dissolved. He didn't even know if John would go through the process if he got Maloof to sign the release forms.

Sherlock stared at his phone for a solid minute after hanging up with John. He allowed himself, in that single minute, to feel all of his worry, fear, and uncertainty. Then, as he stood he sucked in a breath, metaphorically squared his shoulders and unzipped the duffel bag. 

"Into battle," he muttered to himself as he pulled out the outfit his brother had provided him. It was certainly nothing he would have picked out for himself, but the fabric was breathable, unlike his already damp dress shirt.

Deplorable as the room was, it did offer him a small closet with a set of hangers. Sherlock hung his suit up and finished changing. He was still hot, the outfit was certainly not a magic fix, but it was marginally better. At the very least the colors were soft and muted, unlike his dark suit.

Ten minutes later he slipped back into the backseat of the black car that had brought him to the motel, emotions, and doubts left behind in his room. 

"I assume Mycroft has a rendezvous location for myself and his people?" 

"Yes sir," the blond diver said, catching Sherlock's eye in the mirror. "Shall we head there, sir?"

"No... not yet." Sherlock mulled over the possibilities, once he met up with Mycroft's men he knew his say would be second hand. He needed data first.

"Where then?"

"Take me to Maloof's home. I need data, a few hours of surveillance should give me a keener idea on who we're dealing with." 

Ten hours later Sherlock was back in his motel room, desperately fighting with the AC unit on his wall, trying to get it to blow something more than hot air. He was drenched in sweat, his hair was wet, his clothes were wet, and he smelled to high heaven. He'd spent the greater part of the day in a second-floor room across the street from Maloof's home, and it had been hot. Two hours in he'd begun sweating in places he'd never sweated from before. He'd have to ask John how he'd handled his arsecrack sweating during his service.

Eventually, he got the AC unit to plow lukewarm air, which was better than nothing so he gave up fiddling with it and stripped down to his pants. It was late evening, he had hardly eaten anything, but when Quinton, his driver, offered to pick up food for him he'd shaken his head and just asked for water. Something about the heat made him not want food, and he knew as long as he stayed hydrated he'd survive two days without food. John would make sure he ate when he got back. 

John. Thinking of John was enough to shift him out of his armor, it was enough to let his emotions seep to the surface now that he was alone. It was still early evening for John, with the time difference, maybe if he showered quickly John would be free to chat. He'd have to kill that spider though, god knew it if was poisonous or not.

Sherlock stopped walking, halfway to the small bathroom attached to his room and shook his head. "Chat...what am I? A teenager? I don't  _ chat _ ."

As it turned out John had been thinking roughly the same thing. When he stepped out of the shower, feeling like a new man, his mobile was flashing with a missed text alert. He wrapped a towel around his waist and walked over to his phone and tapped the screen.

_**Are you still alive?** _

Sherlock picked up his phone, smiled, and settled down on the bed.

_**Dehydrated, but alive. -SH** _

**_Drink something._ **

**_Yes, Doctor. -SH_ **

Sherlock picked up the water bottle that was sitting on the small table beside the bed and dutifully took a sip, a sip that turned into guzzling half the bottle.

**_Happy? -SH_ **

**_Depends, how much did you drink?_ **

**_Half a water bottle, in one gulp. -SH_ **

**_Then yes, I'm happy._ **

About five minutes went by before either of them sent a text again, and Sherlock sent the first text.

**_How was your day? -SH_ **

He cringed as soon as he hit send. He didn't normally ask John that, but normally he could * See * John, and read how his day was simply from the way his friend held himself. 

**_Fine... thanks for asking._ **

There was another pause, perhaps a minute, before John sent another text.

**_Lestrade asked me out tonight._ **

**_On a date? -SH_ **

Sherlock couldn't help but smile, he knew what John meant, probably to a pup for some "We solved another case pint," but he also never missed an opportunity to tease John.

**_Yes, on a date. What did you think I meant? Out for a drink?_ **

**_I hope you two will be happy, remember not to invite me to the wedding. -SH_ **

**_Ew…_ **

**_Nah, going out for a pint. He knows I'm alone tonight and tomorrow. What about you, what did you do today? Can you tell me?_ **

**_Oh... mostly surveillance today, tomorrow is the interesting bit. -SH_ **

**_That reminds me, -SH_ **

**_How the bloody hell did you deal with the heat when you were in the service? My arse sweated today, my arse shouldn't sweat. Ever. -SH_ **

**_Hahaha swampass... Powder.. mainly. Nothing that can be done. It just... happens in extreme heat._ **

**_Well, it's disgusting, and I can't wait to come back to tepid weather. -SH_ **

**_Lestrade is here... I've gotta go. Just... well, stay safe tomorrow._ **

**_I'll do what I can. Enjoy your evening. -SH_ **

***

Sherlock's alarm went off before the sun was up. He groaned and rolled over, silently cursing the two pre-dawn wake-ups in a row. He dragged himself out of bed, brushed his teeth and pulled on a clean pair of pants. He picked up the linen shirt but stopped short when his nose picked up a sour stench coming from the fabric. He wrinkled his nose and took a closer sniff, only to open his mouth and lick his lips in disgust. There was no way he was wearing that today. The trousers had fared a little better, so he put those on and put on the dress shirt he'd worn on the flight in. He left it untucked, bottom two buttons remained undone then gathered up the paperwork he would need if he could get Maloof to sign them.

The driver, Quinton, was waiting for him when he stepped outside, though he wouldn't have minded waiting had it come to that. The sun was still below the horizon, it hadn't had time to heat the sandy landscape to searing temperatures yet. Sherlock allowed Quinton to drive him to where Mycroft's minions waited for him. They transferred from the sleek black car to a dusty van, and only once they were on the road did they speak. There were four men and one woman, all Alphas. The leader, a tall dark-skinned expressed his displeasure that Sherlock hadn't met with them the day before.

"You've wasted valuable time."

"Waste? I think not." Sherlock yawned and looked out the window, "Did you know he has six bonded Omegas living with him? Two have infants, three have toddlers? What is your plan for the children, should the Omega parents be... out of commission... for a while? Hmm? Did you know that he had guards? Two men, both armed, watching the house?"

"Six? We only knew of five," the leader said while pulling out his mobile and tapping away furiously on the screen.

"Guards?" the female officer asked, her annoyance replaced with concern.

"Two." Sherlock reiterated. 

"What's our plan now, Steve?" she asked, worry creasing her otherwise pretty face.

"Your plan today is to do nothing. Today I attempt to get Maloof to sign these," Sherlock patted the folder which was currently sitting on his lap, sliding around thanks to the bumpy road, "if I succeed, then our job here is done. If not..."

"We're well aware of what comes next." the female said and Sherlock tried to read her, tried to see how she felt about her part in this plan, but she was as blank as a stone.

Everything was going according to plan.. that is until it suddenly wasn't. Sherlock had spotted Maloof about ten minutes from his house, alone, and instructed Quinton to pull over. He hopped out of the van, straightened his shirt and scooped up the folder from the seat. He chose a trajectory that would have him and Maloof cross paths on a street corner, in plain view of the van and the agents inside. When he and Maloof were within a quarter of a kilometer of each other the Alpha began sniffing the air, an angry expression on his face. 

He seemed to hone in on Sherlock and as they drew closer, his eyes never once left Sherlock's. They were in a bit of a gridlock, one Alpha facing another, one outraged the other calm. Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, to address the other man but suddenly Maloof's eyes went wide and he snarled, "Youuuu...."

Sherlock was thrown against the side of a nearby brick building before he had time to react. Seconds after the impact Maloof had one hand fisted in the fabric of his dress shirt while the other fist balled up and coiled, ready to attack. Sherlock had just enough time to move his head to one side before the blow came. There was a sickening crunch of bone on stone as Maloof's fist made contact with the wall instead of his head and even though the attacking Alpha recoiled and released his hold on Sherlock's shirt to cradle his injured hand Sherlock wasn't able to move. Maloof had some height on him and had gained a stone or two since the picture in John's folder had been taken, and he used his mass to his advantage. He kept his hips pressed against Sherlock, pinning him to the wall, their faces mere centimeters apart, Sherlock could feel (and smell) his hot breath, which came in puffs.

"I smell him on you..." Maloof snarled, his voice deep and sinister, his broken English only making his words that much more gruff. "The one who got away, he belongs to me!" Maloof spat the words out as if they were poisonous sending spittle flying onto Sherlock's face. Sherlock winced on impact and reached a hand up to brush the saliva from his skin. "You must return him to me, it is the law!"

"I think not," Sherlock sighed dramatically as if he were bored with the situation. He hooked a foot behind one of Maloof's ankles and used his weight to send the Alpha off balance. While Maloof struggled to pick is substantial mass up off the ground Sherlock bent and retrieved the folder from where it had fallen on the ground then straightened his dress shirt.

"The laws are changing, Maloof. Alpha's aren't protected like the used to be, they are now subject to facing charges for rape just like any Beta. My Government, at least, sees that Omegas are people too. And the Omega you bound against his wishes is protected. I'm here to request your signature on these documents. If you sign, the matter will be put behind us and I will walk away. If not. well, the consequences will be more dire." Sherlock held out the folder and inwardly hoped that Maloof wasn't up to date on British laws regarding Omega's and their rights. England certainly protected its Omegas a great deal more than Afghanistan, but not everything he said was law exactly. 

Maloof took one look at the papers inside the folder, spat on them, and tossed them to the ground before lunging for Sherlock again. This time, however, the female agent and one of the other men Sherlock hadn't gotten a name from materialized behind Maloof, each took an arm in hand and held him back as he strained to get at Sherlock. 

"He is a slut, sleeping with the likes of you! You're not man, you pretty boy. I'm a real man, I will not sign! He is mine!" Maloof roared and broke free from the female agent. His fist came flying at Sherlock, and this time Sherlock wasn't able to dodge it. The blow missed his nose but got him square in the cheekbone. He recoiled out of pain and the female agent regained her grip on the irate Alpha. Another agent stepped out of the van, speaking into a phone as he moved towards Sherlock. He ushered Sherlock around the corner where Quinton now sat inside the black town car and instructed Sherlock to get in.

"We will sedate him, and hold him. I suggest you call your brother and arrange travel home."

Sherlock nodded, and brought his fingers up to this his cheek and winced from the pain. They came away red, and he wondered vaguely if his cheekbone had been fractured when Quinton cleared his throat and started the car.

"The hospitals near here are decent, but you'll have a long wait."

"I'll be fine. Can you bring me back to the motel, then to the airport?" 

Quinton nodded and passed Sherlock his handkerchief before pulling the car out onto the dusty street. 

***

Sherlock ignored the looks he got as he stepped onto the airplane. He looked about as great as he felt. His suit was wrinkled, stained, his dress shirt has blood on the collar. But he had bigger things to worry about than what some stranger on a plane thought about him. Maloof had denied his request. Maloof had attacked him instead. He sighed as he sat in his assigned seat, long legs cramped against the seat in front of him, and stifled a frustrated groan. He'd just, essentially, condemned a man to death. Not a very nice man, but people would suffer as a result of his death, innocent people. Knowing what he knew now about his brother's status did little to reassure him. Yes, the affected Omega's would receive the best care Mycroft could afford (which was saying a lot) and in the long run, were probably much better off without the monster who was Maloof, but they would still feel his loss. Love or no love, their bodies would cry out for the man who had trapped them in their present life. 

The sun was just setting as the plane took off. Sherlock watched the sun sink, his feelings echoing the decent. He'd been given a 24-hour head start, before... well before he needed to be by John's side. It would take him roughly 8 hours to get home, not taking London traffic into account, which gave him 16 hours to prepare. Mycroft had called Sherlock just as he arrived at the Kandahar airport, and had requested a visit from Sherlock when he landed. That would easily take up a few hours. There would be little time to sleep once back in London, so Sherlock pushed aside his emotions once again and closed his eyes.

"We've taken his height and weight into account, so the dose is correct." Mycroft handed over a tiny baggie filled with a strange off white powder. "It's a military-grade sedative," he added as Sherlock took the bag and placed it in his coat pocket. "You'll also find he'll be needing these," Mycroft opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a paper pharmacy bag. 

Sherlock looked inside and wrinkled his nose. "Condoms, really, Mycroft? You think I'm that crass?"

"No, I think you're underestimating what an Omega in heat will do to your sensibility. They are just a precaution. What is under them, however, is essential."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shuffled the contents of the bag around until he saw the flat package below. It resembled the package for birth control available to Beta women. It resembled it in that it was roughly the same size and shape, and that it had pills marked for each day. But Sherlock knew better than to assume it was a simple medicating for stopping unwanted pregnancies. "Blockers?"

"Yes, the same ones he took when he was in the military, so we know they'll work for him. If he wants them. Do not force him, if he refuses, I suggest you clear out at first sign of his heat. If you don't want to find yourself and him in an uncomfortable situation." Mycroft gave his baby brother a coy smile then closed the drawer. "I'm not saying this to warn you off, Sherlock, simply to educate you."

"Yes, I understand." Sherlock nodded and folded the top of the bag down so it would remain closed.

"Thank you, Mycroft. I... this was a lot to ask, for the sake of one man... and myself." Sherlock felt guilt bubbling in his stomach at the thought of what his actions had caused. Cause and effect, all because of one man's selfish request.

"If it makes you feel any better, Sherlock," Mycroft said, kindness in his voice as he met his brother's eyes, "We've been able to tie in more than one suicide bombing to Maloof, he's some sort of ring leader. Because of our eyes on him, the military has been able to make a few arrests." 

Sherlock took in a breath and regarded Mycroft. He smiled and nodded his silent thanks. Twelve of his twenty-four hours had been used already. It was early morning, just before 7 am. John would be getting ready up for the day by now.

"I need to get in touch with DI Lestrade, explain that John won't be available for cases for a time. I'll come up with something believable."

Mycroft gave Sherlock an approving look, clearly pleased that Sherlock's first instinct wasn't to out John as an Omega to his boss. Sherlock took his leave then and called Lestrade on his drive back to 221B. He made up a story about how John's sister was ill and needed looking after, that John would probably be gone for a week or so, off in the countryside where he had no cellphone reception, then rung off.

"You look like you were punched." John set his tea down on the table in the kitchen, "No, stop, don't you dare scuttle off. Sit." John's voice was crisp, commanding, gruff even.

Sherlock stopped mid-step, wanting nothing more than a shower and fresh clothes, but did as John commanded. He pulled out a chair and sat at the table, dropping his bag on the floor beside the chair and looked up at John. John was already wetting a flannel under the tap, he'd procured a medical kit from somewhere, under the sink most likely. He opened it, pulled out a bottle of antiseptic then pulled a chair up so he sat across from Sherlock. 

Sherlock was keenly aware that he didn't smell fantastic, but if John noticed he said nothing. He simply set to work, cleaning the wound and feeling around the area with his fingers. "I don't think anything is broken... you're not crying out in agony. Still, might not hurt to get it looked at."

"I'll be fine," Sherlock said, wincing as John pressed the antiseptic to the cut. "Warning?"

"You're a big boy, don't need me to tell you 'this might sting a little' do you?" John cracked a smile and it made Sherlock's heart flutter. 

"No, I guess not."

Sherlock closed his eyes and allowed John to care for him. It wasn't romantic, like in the stories. Boy gets hurt, love interest patches him up, they fall into bed together shortly after. It wasn't like that at all. It wasn't clinical either, it was somewhere in the middle. This was Captain Watson, chief surgeon, caring for a wounded fellow. This was a man who didn't care that he smelled, that he hadn't brushed his hair or teeth in at least a day, but did care that he came home with a black eye and a split face. Sherlock was certain that beneath John's calm exterior was an interior silently cursing Mycroft for putting him in this situation. He would have to explain the truth once John was... recovered. The thought made him suck in a deep breath, uneasiness making him subconsciously shift in the chair. John took that as a sign that Sherlock had tolerated enough, and sat back, putting the bottle and flannel on the table. 

"I'd like to patch that up if you'll let me. It could use a bandage or two." 

"Will it scar if left alone?" 

"Not if it doesn't get infected..." John furrowed his brow as he eyed the cut. "Care to explain what happened?" 

"Later... I think. I need to shower and burn this suit."

John laughed and stood up. "It isn't that bad, give it to me after you've showered, I'll bring it to get laundered. I have a few things to bring myself."

"Uhhh..." Sherlock said, still sitting in the chair, trying to think of a reason for John to be home before dusk. "I was thinking, Angelo's tonight, perhaps some crap telly? I could use a mind-numbing evening." 

"Yeah," John turned from the sink after washing his hands, drying his hand on a towel, "that sounds nice."

They were sat on the sofa, John was watching some crap talk show while he ate. Sherlock's plate sat mostly untouched on the coffee table. Sherlock watched, somewhat impatiently, as John ate his dinner. John was a creature of habit, and if he were to have any hope in drugging John it would be his habitual after-dinner cup of tea. When John's plate was empty Sherlock stood and took both his and John's plate into the kitchen. While the tea was brewing he actually washed the plates, partly because if everything was about to go sideways he didn't want to dirty plates stinking up the kitchen, and partly because he felt guilty over what he was about to do.

The kettle clicked off. Sherlock took a deep breath, dried his hands and reached up for two mugs. He made sure to grab two different mugs, he grabbed John's mug with the military medical insignia (for John), the other a plain white one. In John's mug, he placed the powdered contents of the baggie his brother had given him and sugar (even though he knew John didn't take sugar in his). He willed his hands to stop shaking as he picked up the mugs and sucked in one more deep breath of air, then brought the tea out to John.

John made a face when he tasted the sweetened tea but said nothing. Sherlock then began distracting John with idle chatter, asking him questions about the guests on the talk show, knowing that if he got John talking he would be more likely to drink the tea between answering questions. It worked, as Sherlock knew it would, and within a half-hour both their mugs were empty and John was talking animatedly about one of the guests. Sherlock nodded along, mentally counting down until the drug would incapacitate John, which should happen any minute now. John yawned, stretched, then yawned again. 

"I'm tapped, think I'll head to bed." John stood, a bit unsteadily, though he didn't seem to noticed and made his way sluggishly down the hall towards the loo. It was a miracle that John somehow made it up to his bedroom, but he did. Sherlock hovered, unnoticed, at the door while John took off his socks and plopped on his bed still dressed. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow. 

"I'm so sorry, John..." Sherlock sighed, making his way into the bedroom and pulling the chair John kept at his tiny desk over to the side of the bed. "I'm so sorry..." 

As Sherlock sat, prepared to sit by his friends' side until the drug wore off, he pulled his phone out of his pocket and sent a text to his brother. 

_**"It's done."** _

There was no reply, but he hadn't expected one. It was enough that Mycroft knew, he just wondered if it would be enough. If John sleeping through the moment where his body lost part of itself would be enough.

Only time would tell.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not particularly happy with this chapter. But I didn't want to leave you guys hanging for ages. I had a super stressful week. My car died, I had Boston comic Con (I work the convention as convention crew) and I am STILL without a car. Hopefully getting a new one tomorrow... Hopefully. Cross your fingers for me. 
> 
> Most of this was writing while at work... Like I said it isn't my best work but I hope next chapter will be much better

Time seemed to pause for Sherlock while he waited. His focus was so intent on John that the sounds of the street outside the window, or the clock on John's wall ticking, never reached his ears. Only the soft sounds John made while passed out (quite literally) registered on his consciousness. Sherlock sat, waiting for... well, he didn't know what for. He just knew that when it happened, he would know.

His phone vibrating in his pocket sometime later startled him. It was a text from his brother, simply stating "it is done". Sherlock re-pocketed his phone and with renewed vigor resumed his watch over John. Thirty minutes went by, then an hour, John continued to sleep, peacefully, at that. Two hours came and went, then three. It was an hour before dawn when it happened. Sherlock was woken from a light sleep by the sound of John whimpering. He stood so fast that the chair nearly toppled over, but caught it last second. He righted it with a thud, which thankfully didn't wake John from his restless slumber.

By the dim light entering the room from the window, Sherlock was able to make out John's features. His face was twisted up in pain, his forehead wrinkled and glistening from sweat, and his golden hair was matted against his scalp with sweat. The bedding on John's bed was a mess, it didn't take a detective to conclude that John had been tossing and turning silently in his sleep for some time before waking Sherlock. Sherlock pressed two fingers to the pulse point on John's neck and counted his heartbeats, though tricky with John's fretting movements he was able to calculate 130 beats per minute. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair and swore. From the looks of it, John was experiencing some sort of panic attack meets night terror, and he had no idea how to help. When plagued with normal nightmares, he knew it was best not to wake John, but he didn't know if that applied to this situation. He decided on letting John sleep, figuring that if he woke John the episode would only continue, and in a groggy half asleep (and probably still drugged) state that could be more damaging to John than the memories of a dream. He settled, uneasily, back into the chair and leaned forward, resting his hands on his legs and folding his hands together. All he could do was wait, wait for John to wake. 

John slept fitfully for another twenty minutes. When he woke, he woke with a loud gurgling gasp that startled Sherlock and sent shivers down his spine. The noises that continued to come from John sounded like the last breaths of a drowning man. He sat up, glassy eyes looked around the room without seeing. His chest was heaving, breaths became ragged and short. Sherlock once again stood from the chair and went to John's side, he placed a hand on John's leg, which made John twitch violently. John drew his legs up in one sharp jerk, wrapped his arms around his knees and began to rock back and forth, a low keening coming from deep within his throat.

It was as John moved that Sherlock noticed the change in the air. It hit his nose suddenly, like a theoretical sucker punch to the face. It took Sherlock a full minute to put together all the parts of the new scent that was now overpowering his senses. It was a sweet scent, like cinnamon mixed with hints of vanilla and caramel and it tugged at Sherlock's senses, it made his head spin and it was all he could think about. It made him so woozy that he had to sit back down on the chair. He tried to catch his breath but drew in a breath from his nostrils. That was a mistake, instead of the desired effect of clearing his head, it filled his lungs with the scent of John. That was, after all, what he was smelling. John, like he had never experienced before. He took in another breath, but was smarter about it this time, inhaling from his mouth in slow shallow breaths. John was still rocking back and forth at the head of the bed, that low gurgling whimper still tore at Sherlock's heart. 

"John?" Sherlock called out making John flinch and pull his legs closer as if he were trying to conform his body into the smallest ball possible. He swung his head around the room, glassy unseeing eyes swept over the spot where he stood and John began to shake.

"I... I can't see. Sherlock?" John's voice was a horse whisper.

Before Sherlock was able to think of an answer, John spoke again, his voice small, almost childlike fear wrapped around each word.

"What... what's happened to me?" 

"John..." Guilt over what he'd done to John surged through Sherlock like toxins in his blood, he bit his bottom lip and bit back a sob, "your Alpha is.. well he's dead." Sherlock had never been good at sugar-coating the truth, and this was no exception. John stopped rocking but his newfound stillness frightened Sherlock more than the fretful movements had.

The room went silent, so silent that all Sherlock could hear was his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. 

"How..." John said after what felt like an eternity of silence to Sherlock. 

"I don't know." Sherlock hated himself even as he was mid-sentence lying to John. "Are... are you all right? I mean, well.. how do you feel?"

John groaned and leaned his head back against the wooden headboard, releasing his grip a little (but not entirely, Sherlock noticed) on his legs. 

"I can't see, I feel like shit, like how you feel hours before you get the flu when your whole body aches and every muscle hurts."

Sherlock nodded, forgetting that John couldn't see.

"I also...." John swallowed hard and cleared his throat, "I feel like I've just lost someone... like I'm grieving a loss... But, I never knew him."

"It is part of the process... "

"Sherlock, I need you to do something for me." John whimpered again, his face twisting up in pain and he let go of his knees in favor of grabbing his stomach. "There's a doctor I went to school with, Rio, Donald Rio... call him."

"What for?" Sherlock asked, but it fell on deaf ears as John fell back into a fitful sleep. Sherlock brought both hands up to grip fistfuls of hair, he squeezed and the pain seemed to help bring him back to his senses. John had fallen asleep half sitting up, head cocked awkwardly to one side in a way that would most certainly lead to a pinched nerve. Carefully, as if John were made out of fragile ice, he re-positioned his friend so he lay curled up on his side, head resting in what Sherlock hoped was a comfortable position. He covered John with a blanket then made his way quietly down to the lounge.

Immediately Sherlock felt as if something vital were missing from his being. His mind itched and he had to fight the urge to go back upstairs and check on John. He forced himself to take slow, steadying breaths when he sucked in a lung full of air smelling of disinfectants and soft hints of tea, that's when he realized what was missing. He couldn't smell John as strongly down here as he had upstairs. Oh, he could smell John. John was everywhere, as Sherlock paced the room the smell of John grew stronger the closer he got to John's chair, but it was nothing like how it had been upstairs.

Sherlock paced, letting the less potent air clear his head, for ten full minutes before he felt he could concentrate. He then sat at the table, opened John's laptop and did an internet search for Doctor Donald Rio. Two listings came up, one currently lived in Canada and looked to be in his mid-Seventies, Sherlock eliminated him and clicked on the link for the second man. He looked to be about John's age, dark olive skin hinted at mixed ancestry, his eyes were a dark brown with matching hair. He was a practicing GP, currently residing in London. Try as he might, Sherlock couldn't find a listing for his private home number, so he jotted down the number for his clinic and checked the clock. There were still four hours before the office would open. He decided that it would be wise to sleep now, while he could. He set an alarm for ten minutes to eight, looked down the hall towards his bedroom but thought better of it, and curled up on the sofa where he'd be able to hear if John made any distressing sounds.

***

"You don't understand. I need to speak to him." Sherlock was ready to throw something through the phone at the secretary, he'd been on the phone with her for seven minutes, trying to express his need to speak with Doctor Rio without giving away John's personal life. "Can you just tell him it's important, and it affects his friend John Watson? Right now? Yes, I'll wait."

Ten minutes later Sherlock had spoken with Doctor Rio, explained (mostly) the situation and had gotten the doctor to agree to visit on his lunch break that day. Sherlock nearly threw his phone at the wall out of sheer frustration when he finally rung off, but instead, he just let out a growl and gripped hard at a handful of hair. The pain, while not removing is frustration, grounded him and allowed Sherlock to take a deep breath and calm down. Sherlock cast a glance towards the stairs that lead to John’s room and suddenly wished he’d asked the doctor how to handle the basic needs of John’s body. John would surely need the bathroom by now, possibly water and food, though the food could wait another day or so, that didn’t mean he wouldn’t try.    
  
Sherlock put together a tray of food, mostly fruit, and a few biscuits filled a water bottle with a straw full of ice-cold water and brought it upstairs. John was asleep, still in the same position Sherlock had helped him into a few hours ago, but the sound of Sherlock entering the room caused him to stir. He tried to sit up but whimpered and curled back up into a ball. Sherlock hastily put the tray down on John’s desk and went to his side, placing a hand on John’s shoulder.

“Don’t try to sit up.”   
  
“Why…” John attempted to say, but his words came out thick and sluggish. He cleared his throat and tried again, deliberately enunciating the words, “Why do I hurt?”

“Because every cell in your body is currently at war with itself.” Sherlock let his fingers trail softly down John’s shoulder and arm then sat beside him. “I can help you roll onto your back, prop you up with some pillows. I have food and water for you.”   
  
“Loo… badly.” John opened his eyes and growled, “Vision still sucks.” 

“It will, probably for a few more days, but I’m not an expert. If I help you to the bathroom can you manage?”   
  
“Probably… hopefully.” 

It took them nearly ten minutes simply to make it to the bathroom, Sherlock supported John’s weight and left him standing, holding on to the sink for support, while he stepped out of the room to give John some privacy. John was exhausted and his muscles were shaking from exhaustion by the time he made it back to bed. It was all he could do to collapse in a slightly upright position, propped up by pillows. Sherlock had to position the pillows around John’s head to keep it upright when it proved too much work for his neck. 

“Can I get you to drink anything?”

John made a small sound of affirmation, he’d closed his eyes again, Sherlock figured it was more from the lack of vision than exhaustion. As Sherlock fed John, small bits of food and long sips of water, he told John how he’d managed to get ahold of Doctor Rio, and how the doctor would be stopping by during his lunch hour. John relaxed slightly when he heard and some of the tension lines on his face smoothed. 

“He.. helped a friend right after uni. Bondmate had cancer, didn’t make it. He knows how to help.”   
  
“That’s… good to hear.” Sherlock placed the water bottle back on the tray and sat down on the chair, pulling it closer to the bed in case John decided he wanted more to eat or drink.

“John… I need to ask you a question.” Sherlock inhaled deeply, letting himself be overwhelmed with the scent of his friend, “Can you. Smell me?”

A faint smile crept over John’s face for a brief moment and John nodded slightly. He licked his lips then said, “Since the start. I take it… you can smell me now?”

“I can, and its… well, it is intoxicating.”

“Remind me to tell you about the old Omega’s tale passed down from Omega parent to Omega child. Just.. not now.”   
  
There were a few minutes where neither spoke, John shuffled slightly against the pillows, finding a more comfortable position. Then John broke the silence with a question of his own.   
  
“Sherlock.” John’s voice was weak and sluggish as sleep threatened to overcome him, “did you have anything to do with his death?”

“That, my dear man, is a conversation for another day.”   
  
Though Sherlock had neither confirmed nor denied it, John nodded and let out a slow breath from his nose. Sherlock’s heart fluttered nervously, wondering how John would react now that he knew, but before John could react sleep won the battle and a soft snore filled the room. 

Sherlock left John alone once more, closing his bedroom door this time hoping that John would sleep until Doctor Rio arrived later that day. He brought the tray of food down to the kitchen and found their landlady, Mrs. Hudson, coming upstairs with a tray of tea. She took one look at Sherlock, and the tray in his hands, and drew a conclusion.

“Oh my, is Doctor Watson sick?”

“Sort of..” Sherlock gave the beta woman a small smile and let out a breath, it wouldn’t do to leave her in the dark, what with the possibilities of doctors coming and going. “He had an unwanted bond forced on him while in the service, the bond has been broken… he is.. healing.” 

“Oh dear…” Mrs. Hudson put her tray down on the table in the kitchen and brushed her hands off on the skirt of her purple dress, “I’ll pop out to the shops for you, he’ll be needing food easy to eat, I suspect, energy drinks, the like. You just stay here and keep an eye on him.”   
  
She didn’t even wait for Sherlock to reply before she was off, down the stairs to her flat to get her purse. 

  
  


*** 

Sherlock checked on John a half-hour before Doctor Rio was scheduled to arrive. He woke the Omega up, helped him to the loo one more time, then propped him up in a sitting position again. He was fussing with the blankets, they’d mostly fallen to the floor in all the shuffling about when John cleared his throat. The way he cleared it told Sherlock that he was about to say something, and it was probably something that he wouldn’t like. Sherlock straightened and gave John a look that said, “Go ahead” then remembering he wasn’t able to see asked, “What is it?”

“When he gets here… can you give me time alone with him?”    
  
Sherlock pursed his lips, thankful that John was unable to see him. He was hurt even though he had no right to be. This was, after all, his fault, and if John wanted to be alone with the doctor, he had every right.   
  
“Of course, I’ll just show him up then leave you two alone.” Sherlock patted John’s blanketed foot then left the room. He went downstairs and hovered by the windows, looking out through the curtains every thirty or forty seconds, watching the pavement directly below for any signs of a visitor. With Mrs. Hudson out shopping, there wouldn’t be anyone to answer the door, so he waited impatiently for their guest. 

Just before noon a taxi pulled up and stopped just in front of the door to 221, a man matching the online picture, though noticeably a few years older, stepped out and looked around. Sherlock let the curtain fall shut as he bounded down the stairs. He opened the door just as Doctor Rio was holding a hand up to take hold of the knocker.

“Oh,” The doctor squeaked, startled by the sudden appearance of Sherlock. Sherlock thrust his hand out and introduced himself.   
  
“Sherlock Holmes, we spoke on the phone.”   
  
“Yes, I remember,” Rio collected himself and shook Sherlock’s hand 

“He’s upstairs.” Sherlock wasted no time, he lead the doctor up the two flights of stairs, knocked gently on John’s door and waved the doctor through. “He’s asked to meet with just you, I’ll be downstairs if anything is required of me.”

“Door open or closed?” Doctor Rio asked as Sherlock descended the stairs.   
  
“Closed, I think.”   
  
“Right.” Rio closed the door, and sat down in the chair Sherlock had left near the side of John’s bed. “Let’s start at the beginning, tell me what happened.”

  
“I was attacked, what, a little over a year ago?” John kept his eyes closed and scrubbed a hand over his face, pinching the bridge of his nose between his index finger and thumb before letting out a long sigh. “An alpha, an enemy, bit me,” John moved his hand from his face to his shoulder and pulled the collar of his shirt down so Rio could see the bites. “Bonded me, on top of doing tissue damage to my shoulder. I was pulled away, left to suffer my heat by myself, then medically discharged. I suspect Sherlock found out, and using his brother's position with the government, had the Alpha in question killed. While I appreciate being my own man again, I feel like shit. Every ounce of my body hurts, Don, everything, my toes, my toenails, I can feel where my nails meet skin. I can feel every hair as if they’re on fire, and… I can’t see.” John opened his eyes and frowned. “Its… cloudy, like trying to open your eyes in saltwater for the first time.”

“Well, the good news is, your vision will come back, John. We don’t know what causes it, but it is a common side effect. Could be acute stress on the body, it could have something to do with your body rejecting the deceased Alpha’s presence. Unfortunately, this is something widely unstudied as of now. It isn’t like people would sign up to be bonded, then unbonded, simply to be studied.”

“Hell no, I sure as hell wouldn’t.” 

“Can I take some vitals, blood pressure, pulse. That sort of thing.”   
  
“Yeah, of course. Just, pardon me if I lay here like a lump, just talking is exhausting.” 

“As it will be for a few more days…”   
  
  
***   
  
  
“What did he say?” Sherlock asked, doing his best to hide how anxious he was by helping John get back in bed after another trip to the loo.

“Nothing definitive. My vitals are fine, which is good. Right now I run the risk of dangerously low blood pressure while my body fights off the last of the Alpha’s presence. He said my eyesight will come back, but also that over the next week I’ll be in the most pain. Kind of like when you use unused muscles, how they hurt the most two or three days later. He’ll check on me daily, but after his shifts, not on his lunch.”

“Is there anything I can do?”   
  
“Medically speaking? No, this is all just a waiting game.” John gestured at himself and let out a disgruntled sigh then stifled a yawn. “There are things I want to ask you, Sherlock…”   
  
“But you’re tired,” Sherlock could see that John was struggling to keep his words straight, “So sleep. I will be here for you, any time you need me.”   
  
“Thanks, ‘Lock.” John rolled to his side and pressed his face into the pillow. His words came out slurred and muffled. Sherlock pulled the blanket up over John’s shoulders and tucked it in so John wouldn’t get a chill. He turned to leave, but John placed a hand on his and mumbled, “Stay.”

Sherlock moved the small wooden chair closer to the bed and sat without a word. Though, if he’d been asked, he would have said he felt a tiny bit better knowing that John wanted him near.   
  
***

Doctor Rio returned, unexpectedly, that night with an arm full of books. When Sherlock offered to show him up to John the doctor shook his head and handed Sherlock the stack of books.

"It isn't much, but I can tell you care for him, and that you're worried. The study of Omegas and broken bonds is nearly nonexistent, but this is everything the medical community knows. I've bookmarked the pertinent chapters, and the notebook on the bottom of the stack has my notes, from when I help our friend."

"Thank you." Sherlock felt a sudden fondness for the doctor at the gesture and gave the man a genuine smile. "It's my fault John's like this... I played a part in," 

Doctor Rio held up a hand and stopped Sherlock, "I guessed as much, and while I appreciate your honestly, perhaps the less I know the better?" Sherlock nodded, Rio returned the nod then gestured to a car waiting by the curb. "I'll see you tomorrow, in the meantime see if you can get John to bathe and eat. Normal activities will help him feel less trapped."

"Understood." Sherlock watched as the doctor climbed into the backseat of the car then headed back up the stairs. He walked up the second flight of stairs and stopped just outside John's door. At such close proximity, his nose was filled with the scent of the Omega. Underneath the scent that was John, Sherlock was also able to pick up the scent of sweat and unwashed body, perhaps a bath wasn't such a terrible idea.

He entered John's room, put the books on the desk and gently placed a hand on John's leg. His friend woke nearly instantly. John clumsily pushed himself up onto one elbow and yawned. 

"Feel like getting up out of bed? I could run you a bath downstairs."

"The great Sherlock Holmes, running me a bath. There's a joke in there somewhere, I'm sure of it, I'm just too tired to think of it." John half smiled and, with effort, pushed himself up so his back was against the headboard. "Yeah, I could probably manage," he added after a moment. 

Sherlock, at John's direction, rummaged through John's dresser and pulled out clean pants, socks, and pyjamas. He ran the clothes downstairs, placed them on the floor of the bathroom by the sink and ran the tap, closing the drain on the tub so it would begin to fill while he helped John down the stairs. It didn't take them as long as Sherlock had expected to reach the bathroom, John's memory of their flat helped ease their way and perhaps it had been the food, sleep or a combination of both but John had regained some of his energy. Though, by the time they did make it to the bathroom, tiny beads of sweat had formed on John's brow. 

Sherlock helped John sit on the closed toilet lid then told John he'd be out in the kitchen should John need anything and left the room, giving his friend privacy.

Alone in the bathroom, John scrubbed a hand over his face and let out a shuddering breath. He was overcome with an overwhelming urge to cry. It was all too much for him, yesterday at this time he'd been in fit, tip-top shape, he'd been able to see perfectly and his body didn't feel like that of an old cripple. John blinked away a few tears and was surprised to find that instead of cloudy darkness like he'd experienced he saw dim milky white shapes floating in front of him. He held up his hand, and though he wasn't able to see each individual finger he was able to see a blur that he knew to be his hand. A choking sob escaped his lips before he had time to stifle it, and a scrape of a chair against the kitchen floor followed by a rustling outside the door told him Sherlock was just outside. 

Sherlock tapped on the door then, with a gentle tone to his voice said, "John?"

"Fine... I.. my vision is slightly better, I... can see shapes. Just, caught me off guard."

"That's... well that's good," Sherlock said before stepping away from the door. There was another scrape of the chair against floor and John guess that Sherlock had sat back down at the kitchen table to wait.

John almost called out for Sherlock to help him undress twice. Once when he couldn't get his shirt untangled from around his neck, and the second time when his pants stubbornly rolled as he tried to shimmy out of them while still sitting. He managed, however, and when he finally was able to move himself from toilet to the side of the tub he felt exhausted. He couldn't quite see well enough to tell what the water level was at, but the water had been running the whole time he was undressing, so he reached a hand into the tub to test the water. It was as high, not so high it would spill over the side when he got in, but high enough that he hastened to turn the water off. It was also warm, blissfully warm, and he let out a pleased sigh as he lowered himself into the water.

John felt a wave of pleasure flow over him as the water fully engulfed him. His aching muscles seemed to relax and loosen, his joints seemed less brittle and his head felt clearer. He soaked in the steamy tub, collecting what thoughts he had. It wasn't hard to guess that the "mission" Sherlock had gone on had been related to the death of the asshole who'd bit him. He suddenly found he wanted answers, and he wanted answers pronto. 

"Sherlock!" John called, as loud as his weakened body would allow. 

The chair scuffed for a third time, but this time Sherlock didn't knock, he simply let himself into the bathroom, his voice urgent.

"John, what is it?"

"Sit, I have questions."

"You're naked..." Upon realizing that John wasn't in any sort of peril Sherlock averted his eyes and looked up at the bathroom ceiling. 

"So? I have the same parts as you... mostly, sit."

Sherlock sat, he sat on the closed toilet and fixed his eyes on the doorknob in front of him. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye as John lifted a hand from the water an ran his fingers through his hair.

"Did you kill him?"

"Personally, no. Did I have a hand in it, yes." 

"Was he the one who gave you that black eye?"

Sherlock lifted two fingers up to his eye and pressed into the tender skin. He'd forgotten about the shiner, he'd forgotten about his discomfort the moment John had been affected. 

"Yes. He... smelled you on me, apparently, attacked me before I had time to talk to him."

John nodded slowly as Sherlock continued. 

"What were you going to say?"

"I had the paperwork, the release forms he'd have to sign to allow you to chemically remove his bond." 

"Ahh..."

"I took his physical attack as a rather strong no. John, you should have heard what he said about you... He..."

"It's fine, Sherlock, I don't need to know. I can imagine, I've met men like him. Serial abusers, they're all alike." John sighed and lowered his hand back into the water for a moment the asked, "Hand me a flannel?"

Sherlock did, and John wet the cloth, then felt around for a bar of soap and began lathering himself in soapy bubbles. Sherlock tried not to look.

"John... I'm sorry, for what it is worth."

"I know, I know this wasn't some malicious act. I just wish you had told me, I also wish you hadn't drugged me."

"You..."

"Know about it? Yes, of course, I do. I'm a bloody doctor, not an idiot. I know what it feels like to be sedated. Nice touch, by the way, with the sugar in my tea." 

"I can't tell if you're actually complimenting me, or if you're being sarcastic."

"Funny, neither can I." 

John had finished lathering himself with soap. He dipped the flannel back into the water to rinse it off, then began using it to wash the suds from his skin.

"Why did you do it, let Mycroft step in?"

"Because you deserve better."

"Deserve you?" John asked, there was no heat in his voice, but his tone was wary. Sherlock's gaze snapped to John's face for a moment then he forced himself to look away again.

"No, it isn't like that. You just deserve better, you're not some piece of belonging that can just be snatched up or stolen. You're, well, you. Hell, I had no fucking clue you were an Omega until we spent that night together. That alone is proof that despite what society says, Omegas are people and deserve the same rights."

"That is, unfortunately, something we face every day, Omegas. Because we reproduce differently than Betas we're.. lesser." John sighed and they grew quiet as he finished washing himself and his hair. 

"John... you said there was a tale you wanted to tell me." Sherlock broke the silence, mostly because he was beginning to feel foolish, sitting on a closed toilet while his closet friend bathed openly beside him. John hadn't even bothered to draw the shower curtain closed. 

"Ha." John laughed, Sherlock turned his gaze from the doorknob to John's face and watched as his lips twitched up into a half-smile. "That, perhaps, is a story best told clothed."

"Of course, I'll let you finish in peace." Sherlock stood, but before he left he reached up above the sink and pulled a fresh towel from the shelving there and placed it on the toilet for John. "Fresh towel for you where I was sitting." 

"Ta."

***

John stayed downstairs in the living room after his bath. Sherlock made him a sandwich, which John only picked at. Sherlock sat in his chair, watching John who sat across from him, propped up with a few of the throw pillows that had decorated their lounge. John looked tired, he had thick purple bags under his eyes and two days worth of stubble. He sat at an odd angle, one arm hanging limply over his lap the other resting on the armrest of his chair. For the most part, he kept his eyes closed, though once in a while he'd open them and hold his left hand out in front of his face. Judging by the grimace that followed each time, Sherlock assumed his vision was no better.

They sat in silence for a while, until an idea came to Sherlock. He stood, went to the corner by the bookshelf and took his violin out of its case. He stood by the window, placed the instrument to his chin and tested each string to see if it was in tune. After a few minor adjustments to the lower register strings, he began to play. He played nothing in particular, just let the music take him as it would. Sherlock, instead of keeping his back to the room like he normally did, watched john as he played. Twenty minutes into the song John began to blink slower and slower, within another ten minutes John was asleep. 

Sherlock played on for another quarter of an hour until he was sure John was fast asleep. He had every intention of lifting John Fireman style and carrying him up to his room, but for a short man, John was all muscle and was much heavier than he'd anticipated. His room was closer, and no stairs were required to get there, so without a second thought, he carried his sleeping friend through the flat and gently laid him out on his bed. John snuffled and nuzzled into Sherlock's sheets the moment his skin made contact with them.

Sherlock had placed John on top of his bed, which had been made up earlier that morning by Mrs. Hudson, so he went to his wardrobe and pulled out a spare blanket. John let out a soft sigh as the blanket was draped over him, and he rolled onto his side, gripping one of Sherlock's pillows in a sort of hug. Sherlock sat on the edge of his own bed, watching John for a long moment. On some sort of impulse, he reached out and brushed two fingers over John's forehead. John, though asleep, leaned into the touch and made a soft snuffling sound.

"Sleep, my dear friend," Sherlock whispered, then left the room in search of the books Doctor Rio had left. He brought the books downstairs, and laid on the other half of his bed and began to read.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this chapter took longer than I wanted. I ended up having to trash two chapters because they weren't what I wanted. Then I ended up hurting my back.... lol If any of you know me from Dear John, you'll know that I can get really bad back problems. (I have a buldged disc just above my tailbone and I re-injured it.) I Legit can't even stand right now... Have to be pulled out of bed to go use the bathroom... its fun. Losing a few days of work, unpaid this week, but I should have time to write seeing I'll be stuck in bed. Going to call the doctor first thing tomorrow, hopefully they can fit me in ASAP.. I can't afford a ER visit with my insurance..

**Chapter 6**

Sherlock woke up the next morning disoriented. Not only did he have an open book on his chest, but John had found his way under the covers and had curled up against his side, one arm over his chest and the book. He felt an ache somewhere in the pit of his stomach and wanted nothing more than to grab John in both arms and hold him tight. He reminded himself, however, that John was not HIS, that John hadn't consented to displays of affection from his friend and roommate. He contented himself instead with rolling onto his side and watching as his Omega friend slept. John slept peacefully for a time, but then, just like the night before, his face twisted in pain and his breathing became laboured. Before Sherlock could sit up or wake John, he noticed a steady stream of blood form and trickle down John's neck. If Sherlock hadn't just read about it, the sight of the blood would have alarmed him. Instead, he calmly got up out of bed, went into the bathroom and retrieved a damp flannel. John woke as Sherlock pressed the flannel to his neck.

"Don't move, John. Your bite is bleeding."

"W.. what?" Came John's sleep thick voice, the corners of his eyes tight with the stress of the pain he was experiencing. 

"Your bite, it is bleeding. I was reading about it last night, it is perfectly normal. Think of it like sucking the poison out of a snake bite, that's what your body is doing. It just bleeds a lot, because of the location."

There was a moment of confusion when John ignored Sherlock's requests for stillness. John brought a hand up and swatted Sherlock and the flannel away. He touched his fingers away and felt at his slick neck. His fingers came away wet and sticky, covered in a mixture of brownish goo and blood. When he saw his fingers he began to hyperventilate and sat up hastily. He left a brownish handprint stain behind on Sherlock's sheets, though the detective didn't care. He needed to get John under control before he hurt himself.

"John!" Sherlock said sharply. His voice was firm, loud, though he left an edge of kindness behind his words. "John Watson. Look at me." 

John's head snapped up and he regarded Sherlock with wide eyes that were full of fear and confusion. 

"Can you see me?" Sherlock asked, his voice gentler now. John nodded, though he clamped a hand over his mouth and began to whimper. Sherlock felt a small portion of tension roll off his back knowing that John's vision was improving, he let out a sigh and took John's bloody hand in his and wiped the goop from John's fingers. 

"The blood... its.." John whispered, his voice carrying more fear than any doctor in their right mind should portray at the sight of blood. "Wrong."

"Of course it's wrong. It isn't solely blood. Some of it," Sherlock finished wiping John's fingers off and began dabbing at his neck again, "is something that is transferred into the bite during the bonding process, its part of the Alpha. There is little known about it, nor does it have an exact scientific name, but it is believed to be part of what links the Omega and Alpha together. It's stored just below the surface of your skin, below the bite. That, unfortunately, is all I could learn about it." 

"Need more data?" It was a question, though John's voice was flat, the moment of panic having sapped what little energy he'd had. 

"Me?" 

"Sure." John shrugged and went limp against Sherlock's headboard. 

"John, are you suggesting I take a sample of it? I don't know what good it would do me, I have nothing of the offending Alpha's..." Mycroft would, however, his brain supplied as he straightened up. 

"Mmm." John nodded and closed his eyes, a single tear trickled down his cheek. 

Sherlock nodded, looked down at the flannel. He'd need a fresh one anyway, as this one was now more blood that not. He disappeared into the kitchen, grabbed a few Petri dishes and ducked into the bathroom for a clean flannel and a few bandages on his way back to the bedroom.

"Much easier having you in my room," Sherlock said, just for something to say as he took a few samples then cleaned and dressed the bite. "Are you alright to stay in here for now?"

In way of answering, once Sherlock had finished with the bandage John slid back down onto the mattress and grabbed one of Sherlock's pillows, hugging it close and burying his nose into the stuffing. 

"Omega parents have a story they pass down to their Omega children," John said, voice muffled by the pillow. Sherlock wiped his hands off on the flannel and sat on the edge of the bed, pivoting so he could look at John."

"It goes something like this." John's voice was soft, but Sherlock was close enough that it wasn't difficult to hear him.

"A young Omega, just inside their maturity was out in a field picking flowers for her family. She was young, in her prime, and beautiful. Beta men and Alphas alike had lined up asking her parents for a chance to court her, so strong was her beauty. Her parents would smile, and tell suites that it was her choice to make when she was ready. While out gathering flowers, she was approached by a young Alpha. He bowed, and took her hand in his, kissing it lightly.

'Your hand, I have sought for many a year, fair lady. I would court you, in the fashion of our pairing, if you'd allow it.' 

The Omega smiled, but withdrew her hand with a shake of her head, "I'm waiting. I'll know him when he arrives."

The Alpha, having been rejected, turned and with wounded pride left her. 

Every day that summer, the young lady would gather flowers, or sit beneath a tree on the edge of her Father's property and read. Every day, a new man, Alpha, and Beta alike, would ask her for her hand. Her answer was always the same 'I'm waiting. I'll know him when he arrives.'

Autumn arrived and there were fewer flowers to collect, but that did not deter her. She would still wander the field, collecting what flowers were left or making bouquets out of Autumn leaves. One morning, a young Alpha only a few years older than she approached her where she sat beneath the tree, reading a book of poems. 

'Fair lady, I would sit beside you and read, if you'd let me.' From beneath his tunic, he pulled out an identical book. She looked up at him, smiled and nodded.

For the remainder of that Autumn, he would sit beside her and read, or follow her with a basket and carry her flowers or leaves. On the last day before winter, bundled together in their cloaks, he asked her for her hand. She gave it willingly, saying, 'I knew my love to be you when we first met, for you smelled of peace and protection.'

They were married the next day. She moved into his home, just the other side of the field where she was close to all whom she loved."

John paused for a long moment, his nose buried deep in Sherlock's pillow and he inhaled deeply. 

"My mother told me, I'd be able to smell my true mate, the Alpha made especially for me. She told me to wait for you... That we'd meet."

"We'd meet?" Sherlock said, his voice soft as he took in the implications of the story.

"Yes... we," John said slowly as he fought sleep once more. "I thought she was kidding. But when we first met, I knew she was right."

"I couldn't smell you before, John. All this time, when we were close, I felt something was missing though I couldn't put my fingers on what it was. But now, now that I know, John, you smell like what I imagine heaven to be like." 

John smiled, and though it was a half-smile, his face half-hidden by the pillow, his visible eye crinkled from it. "You smell like peace and protection," he said, and then he fell asleep.

Sherlock sat and pondered John's words for some time. He couldn't think of a single scenario in his life that radiated "Peace". But John's words stayed with him, even as he went about securing his samples of the bite excretion.

Now that he had given it some thought, and had heard John's perspective and story, Sherlock was unable to deny that John's scent meant much more to him than a passing scent. It was more than, say, smelling Lestrade's cologne in passing while working with it. This was stronger, steadier, it pulled at him and drew him in. The longer he was exposed to it, the more he realized he _ needed  _ it in his life. He craved it, craved John in a way he couldn't explain and that wasn't decent with the way things stood. John had expressed Sherlock's own scent with emotions, but Sherlock found he was lost for words when it came to describing how John's scent made him feel.

Not at all hungry for breakfast, Sherlock made himself a cup of tea and went in sat in his chair in the lounge. He was just taking his first sips, lost in thought when there was a soft rap on the door. Mrs. Hudson, their landlady, stuck her head inside. She saw Sherlock and let herself in, sitting in John's chair with a worried expression.

"How is he?"

"Exhausted," Sherlock said with a sigh, rubbing a palm down his thigh. "He was awake for ten minutes just now, and that's all his body could handle. He isn't showing any signs of grief, yet, and with the nature of his bond, I don't even know if he will. He was only in contact with the Alpha long enough for the arsehole to bite him, then he had friends pull him to safety."

"All you can do is keep an eye on him, Sherlock. Don't make yourself sick with worry, he needs you to be strong right now."

"Me... needed." Sherlock let out a bitter laugh then shook his head, "I should have given this more thought."

"Given what more thought?" Mrs. Hudson asked his head tilted slightly in question.

"This," Sherlock waved a hand in the direction of his bedroom, "I started this, thinking it would be best." 

"Ahh..." 

Sherlock regarded their landlady with newfound wonder. She sat back, a look of complete understanding on her face. She was no ordinary lady, Mrs. Hudson.

"I don't know if I did the right thing. All that is left is to do right by him while he suffers." 

They fell silent and Sherlock sipped his tea, half lost in thought while the rest of him kept one ear out for any distressful noises. After a short while Mrs. Hudson stood and began moving about the lounge, righting a pillow here and there or cleaning up discarded dishes. Once the flat was clean, well cleaner, she went to the door but stopped. She pivoted, turning to look at Sherlock where he still sat in his chair, eyes closed in concentrated thought. 

"Should he see anyone? A doctor perhaps?"

"Yes, he is. He has a friend from Uni who has experienced this. Just once, but it's more than either us so I'll take whatever help he can offer. He should be by tonight after the clinic closes. I can only hope that John will sleep until he arrives."

She nodded and left for her own flat downstairs. For his part, Sherlock did not get his wish.

John whole two hours later, a garbled scream erupting from the bedroom followed by a solid "Thump." Sherlock crossed the length of the flat in less than a minute and was by John's side before the soldier could untangle himself from the pile of blankets that had accompanied him to the floor during his fall. It required some effort, but Sherlock got a whimpering John up off the floor and back in bed. 

John was drenched in sweat, his hair rumpled from tossing and turning against the pillow. He was shaking all over and gasping out short terrified moans and whimpers. Sherlock took a moment to make sure that John was far enough on the bed to lower the risk of falling off again, then ducked into the bathroom, returning with a cold flannel which he used to dab at John's forehead with.

"John, can you tell me what's wrong?"

John shook his head, clamping his mouth shut against another scream, then shook his head again. 

"Okay, it's okay... I'm right here. Can I help?" Having wiped off most of John's face Sherlock put the flannel on the nightstand. John's eyes opened for a split second, focused on Sherlock's hand then he reached out and gripped it in his own, holding it in a vice-like grip close to his chest. He patted their joined hand with his free hand before letting it fall back against the bed. Sherlock understood. He shifted so he was sitting more comfortably on the bed and cupped their entangled hands in his other hand.

"I'm here. Try to take a few breaths, it won't do for you to panic." 

John gave one sharp nod, then sucked in a long breath from his nose. A noise slightly less terrified than before escaped on the exhale, but John shook less after a few more breaths. He maintained his hold on Sherlock's hand and Sherlock made no move to withdraw.

John lay, making noises that wrenched Sherlock's heart to pieces, for another fifteen minutes before he went quite. If Sherlock hadn't been able to feel the too slow beet of John's heart beneath where his hand lay on John's chest, Sherlock might have checked for a pulse John lay so still. After a moment or two of the eerie silence John's mouth opened and in a raspy voice, he said, "I feel it now. It's like a giant pit in my heart. I don't even know the man yet I'm torn to bits over his death.

Sherlock wanted to tell John that he was sorry, but words felt wrong. Instead, he simply sighed and shifted so he was laying on the bed beside John, and squeezed his hand. John turned into him, though they didn't touch other than their hands, and after a while fell back to sleep.

***   
  
When Doctor Rio arrived later that night, and Sherlock lead him to his bedroom, instead of John’s the man raised an eyebrow but said nothing. John once again requested privacy, Sherlock frowned at his friend, who was propped up with pillows against his headboard, but nodded when he saw the exhausted plea on John’s face. 

So, while John and the doctor did whatever it was they were doing in his room, Sherlock set about preparing different chemicals he might need when he examined the samples he’d collected that day. He wasn’t sure what he’d be looking for, so he laid out nearly a dozen different containers. It would be easier if he could use the lab at St. Barts, but he didn’t want to leave John. Instead, he put one of the Petri dishes inside the freezer and hoped it wouldn’t become contaminated. 

Rio’s visit lasted an hour and when he finally shut Sherlock’s door and walked do the hall Sherlock stood to go to John, but Rio held a hand up. 

“We should talk, briefly.”

“Right.” Sherlock stood from the table, took off his safety glasses and gloves and glanced towards the lounge. Rio understood and they moved into the next room. Sherlock inclined his head to John’s chair, though he didn’t sit. He stood between his chair and the window, hands in his pockets staring out onto the street below, watching as the street lights flickered on and people went about their business, oblivious to the events taking place above their heads.

“Sherlock, may I call you that?” 

Rio’s voice snapped Sherlock back to life in the flat, he spun on his heels and gave the doctor a curt, but not unpleasant nod.

“John seems quite comfortable with the move. It’s not natural for an Omega to feel comforted bu another Alpah’s scent while undergoing an unbonding process. Yet, judging by the way he kept his face half-buried in one of your pillows, I’d say it’s actually helping him. Sherlock, I need to know your intentions with him. Is he safe?”

“Safe from what? From me? From my evil Alpha ways?” Sherlock couldn’t keep the sneer out of his voice as he rounded on the doctor. He’d expected the accusation sooner or later, but he had underestimated how hard it would trigger his anger. “John has but to say it, and I’ll leave him alone. I might not like it, but I respect his wishes, and I assure you, he is quite safe, Doctor.”   
  
“Good, that’s all I wanted to hear. He said pretty much the shame. I’m just, doing my job, Sherlock. If I thought for an instance he’d be going from one unwanted bond to another, I’d have to intervene, though I understand that isn’t the case here.” 

The way the doctor said that gave Sherlock pause, he arched one eyebrow then looked past the doctor to his closed bedroom door. 

“Did he say he wanted me? Idiot, he needs to heal first, then we’ll discuss it.” Sherlock let out a low rumbling sigh, then sat with a flourish in his chair across from the doctor. “He told me a story today, one that’s passed down from Omega parent to Omega child, one that has to do with finding their true mate. He insinuated that I’m his true mate, and while a small part of me is preening at his words, I need him to understand that  _ nothing _ is happening between us until he’s better.”

“Then tell him. With words.” Doctor Rio spread his hands in an unapologetic manner. “We’re men, British at that, not emotionally dead. Talk to him. Perhaps knowing that there is something to look forward to through all this pain will help him. He needs something to grasp onto, and if you promised him an open discussion when he’s better, that might just do it.”

“I thought you were a medical doctor, not a Psychiatrist,” Sherlock asked, a hint of amusement edged in his voice.

“Ah, the wife is, so it rubs off on me from time to time.”

“How’s his neck? It started oozing today.”

“Clean, thanks to you. It’s technically an open wound, it could become infected easily.”

“I’ll keep an eye on it, keep it dry.”

“Thank you.” 

Rio stood and held a hand out to Sherlock, Sherlock stood as well and took the hand. The two exchanged grips then Sherlock saw the man down to the front door. 

“Same time tomorrow. If anything happens though, don’t hesitate to call.”

After seeing the doctor off, Sherlock checked on John, who was asleep once more before returning to his project at the kitchen table. He’d kept his bedroom door cracked, making it that much easier to hear John if his friend needed him, and set to work learning what he could about the strange substance.


End file.
